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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256310">Anyone's Wife</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley'>MaplePaizley</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhiskerydragon/pseuds/thewhiskerydragon'>thewhiskerydragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Gen, Infidelity, in which marya bolkonskaya deserves More, remember that one random plotline lev cooked up? it's free real estate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 05:42:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>61,592</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhiskerydragon/pseuds/thewhiskerydragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In another lifetime, the Kuragins play their cards a little more carefully, and Marya Bolkonskaya falls prey to a cruel trick.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amelie Bourienne &amp; Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin, Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky/Natalya "Natasha" Ilyinichna Rostova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi friends!! We're back!! </p><p>First! A somewhat unpleasant matter to address. It recently came to our attention that someone wrote a think-piece about War and Peace fanfiction, where they quoted our work. While there was nothing bad said about our writing specifically, there were a lot of incredibly rude comments made about other authors, and fanfiction as a medium. Obviously, we are not okay with this. It is really shitty to consume content that someone has produced for free, as a hobby, and use it to mock them. We do not welcome attitudes like that, and we don't appreciate people reproducing our works for that purpose. </p><p>We know, however, that 99.9 percent of you are lovely human beings, and we are very very grateful to you. We hope all of you and your loved ones are safe and healthy, especially given these turbulent times. </p><p>NOW WITHOUT FURTHER ADO ONTO MORE INDULGENT TRASH</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marya Nikolaevna was so terribly, hopelessly, helplessly in love that it made her head spin.</p><p>She turned her head about the length of the dinner table, watching how the pewter dishware and crystal flutes and sterling silver cutlery warped the reflection of her face. Amélie had worked something of a miracle on her hair tonight, twisted it up into a chignon and pinned it through with a malachite brooch the late Ksenia Bolkonskaya had worn on her wedding day. In Mary’s glittering reflections she saw her own happiness mirrored back at her, the perfect bride she had always longed to be, a hundred times over.</p><p>She so rarely smiled that it felt strange to, even now, strange and wonderful as this all was, at the sight of Prince Anatole’s reflection beside her own.</p><p>Could this really be her husband? Her <em>husband</em>, she thought, and let the word roll around in her mind several times, savouring it like a boiled sweet.</p><p>The first time she had seen him, she hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. Then, he had hardly seemed a real man to her, only something impossibly bright and beautiful, some Eros or Narcissus. Looking at him now, all flushed with wine, his silver-blonde hair soft and so tempting to touch, she wondered how she had ever been so frightened and unsure.</p><p>Everything about him was perfect. His naïve handsome smile, his large glittering eyes, those lips, the sinuous, strong lines of his arms and chest under that jacket—</p><p>“Marie, <em>ma chérie</em>,” said Countess Hélène from across the table, over her forkful of pastila, “you look lost in thought.”</p><p>Mary startled back to reality at the sound of her new sister’s voice. She hadn’t even noticed that her ice cream had begun to melt.</p><p>Hélène laughed gently. She was just as beautiful as her brother, Mary thought. Tonight, she was dressed in gold chiffon and a gleaming double-string of pearls. Whenever she moved her head, her necklace and earrings caught the light of the chandeliers and sent it glittering about the room. Every so often she would smile and say a few words to Pierre, who gazed at her in dumb newlywed adoration.</p><p>“Have you tried the pastila, Tolya?” Hélène asked Anatole.</p><p>“I’ve never cared for pastila,” he said.</p><p>“He’s so picky, this one!” Hélène said teasingly to Mary.</p><p>Anatole smiled that beautiful charming smile of his. “I have every right to be picky. I’d never manage all of this food if I weren’t.” He turned to her. “Isn’t that so, Marie?”</p><p><em>Marie</em>, she thought, and relished the sound of it, satin on his tongue. Something so elegant and sophisticated from a man so sensible and simple.</p><p>Anatole let his hand brush against hers, just the barest touch. Mary almost leapt from her seat. Her heart rattled wildly in her chest, like a rabbit caught in a trap.</p><p>“The poor thing looks like she could do with a drink,” said Hélène. “Don’t you agree, Petrushka?” </p><p>Pierre smiled passively, flushed as he was, and allowed Hélène to top off his glass. “Well,” he said, loosening his cravat with one hand, “I don’t suppose it would hurt.”</p><p>“The doctor warned you not to drink,” said Andrei, eyeing Pierre’s wine. He had spoken so little since dinner had begun that it was easy to forget he was there at all.</p><p>Pierre furrowed his brow, his gaze darting between Andrei and the glass. He seemed to deflate a little. “I hadn’t thought of that, actually.”</p><p>“It’s no matter, darling,” Hélène said. “It’s only one night. I’m sure the doctor understands we have to live a little every now and then.”</p><p>Pierre eyed his glass. He made no move to drink, but he didn’t look particularly keen on tossing it away either.</p><p>Andrei tutted in disgust. “You’ll drink yourself into an early grave like that.”</p><p>“Andrei, really,” Mary said.</p><p>Hélène’s smile never faltered. If anything, it grew even more brilliant. Her teeth were perfectly white and straight. “This is meant to be a happy day, Andryusha. Let’s not be morbid.”</p><p>“I wasn’t addressing you,” Andrei said coolly.</p><p>“Don’t you take that tone with my wife,” Pierre snapped, his voice raised almost to a shout.</p><p>Mary flinched back on instinct, her heart beating even harder than before. <em>This is not your father</em>, she told herself, fighting the urge to crawl under the table and hide or hide her face in her hands. <em>And you are not a little girl</em>.</p><p>Pierre, as though sensing her distress and ashamed for it, flushed a deep red all the way down his collar and sat back without another word, his eyes low and his hands folded in his lap.</p><p>“Now then,” said Anatole, “there’s no need for all this, eh? Someone call the waiter over. We’ll all be happier with a bit more champagne.”</p><p>After dessert was served it came time for the toasts. Mary cringed pre-emptively as her father stood from his seat, flushed from what was almost certainly not his first bottle of wine of the night, and cleared his throat with such force that she worried for a moment he was choking.</p><p>“Well,” he said, recovering himself, “I’d thank you for gracing us with your presence, but it should be the other way ‘round. Ten thousand on the food alone! Not to mention the priest, the wine, the carriages.” He gestured vaguely above his head. “You’d think it was Versailles, the way I’ve spent hosting this godforsaken carry-on.”</p><p>Prince Bolkonsky paused expectantly, or perhaps to catch a runaway train of thought. Not a soul in the room laughed. Mary felt a flash of mortification, then chastised herself for it. He was old and feeble, and she dared to judge him. On this day of all days. </p><p>“And thank God someone finally looked at Marya twice, eh!” continued the old prince, a crooked something halfway between a sneer and a grin splitting his stern grey face. “She was ripe for the convent, this one. Never thought we’d be rid of her.  Nothing like Prince Andrei’s little wife.”</p><p>Andrei’s expression darkened at the mention of Lise. But he held his tongue, and Mary wished for once he wouldn’t, if only to spare them the second-hand humiliation of being subject to this.</p><p>“I suppose she’s fortunate to find a boy lacking enough in sense to marry a spinster, even if he is a layabout Francophile scoundrel like his—”</p><p>Prince Vasily, like some divine assailing hero, stood and clapped before Bolkonsky could get another word out. Dressed tonight in a handsome tailored suit, he resembled an older version of his youngest son, but darker, the features more Roman and masculine, as though someone had gone over the lines of his face in charcoal with a steady hand. His black hair was silver-streaked at the temples in a way that Mary thought gave him a distinguished air. </p><p>Prince Bolkonsky scowled and sank back in his seat with his arms crossed.</p><p>“Thank you for your thoughts, Prince Nikolai,” Vasily said smoothly, with all the ease of picking up a recently-aborted conversation. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to say a few words as well.”</p><p>Bolkonsky waved his hand and gave a derisive <em>bah</em>. Though no one dared to say a thing, the room breathed a collective sigh of relief.</p><p>“Now then,” Vasily said to the guests, with the same charming smile Mary recognized so well in his son. “I promise, I won’t keep you all much longer. Anatole and Marya, may God bless your marriage and bring you joy for the rest of your years. I’ve never seen a lovelier bride, save, of course, for my wife and daughter.”</p><p>Mary felt a warm happy glow rise in her chest. Under the rouge and perfume, her face went blotchy with blush.</p><p>Vasily laid a hand over his heart as he looked to Anatole. “Tolya, my boy,” he said, as though Anatole were three and not twenty-three. “My youngest. It seems just yesterday I held you in my arms for the first time. And what a fine match you’ve made for yourself. The family name is in fine hands indeed.” He raised his glass, his voice with it. “To marriage and children, those busy birds and bees!”</p><p>This time the guests laughed, Mary with them. Vasily smiled and bowed his head good-naturedly and let them carry on as they pleased. Before their applause had fully died out, and just as Vasily had taken his seat, Pierre made a fumbled attempt to his feet. Hélène laid a warning hand on his forearm.</p><p>“Darling,” she said in a low voice, “really, there’s been enough of that, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I only wanted to say a few words,” he slurred.</p><p>Vasily laughed. “We don’t want to sit here all night, my dear fellow. Perhaps it would be best if you kept your thoughts to yourself.”</p><p>Pierre sank back to his chair with a mumbled apology. Mary was so grateful for Vasily’s intervention that she hardly gave a passing thought to the humiliated look on Pierre’s face, or the way he went back to his wine bottle as if without thought.</p><p>A rush of other toasts and a great ordeal of standing and sitting followed, laughter and drink and applause in between each, each more drunken and merrier than the last. After the wedding gifts had been presented and opened, they were handed a shot of vodka each, which they were to drink together. An old tradition, meant to take the bitterness out of married life.</p><p>Anatole threw his glass back without flinching. The smell of it made Mary’s eyes water. She should have expected, with a smell like that, that the taste would be less than pleasant. It burned her nose and throat like nothing she’d ever drank before. Mary thought for a second she might retch and prayed with all her might that she wouldn’t.</p><p>“<em>Gorko, gorko, gorko</em>!” the guests chanted in unison. <em>Bitter, bitter, bitter</em>.</p><p>They were meant to kiss then, according to tradition, but Mary was coughing so hard she almost didn’t notice how Anatole leaned in and pecked her lips.</p><p>“And now,” said Prince Vasily, gesturing to them again with his glass, “may the happy couple lead us in the waltz.”</p><p>Still gasping, her eyes still watering, Mary quailed. She hardly trusted herself to stand from her seat, never mind stumble her way through a waltz. Everyone would laugh at her, and her father would sneer and scold her, and it would all be so awful and humiliating the thought of it almost brought her to tears.</p><p>Prince Vasily, merciful and ever quick on the uptake, offered a benevolent hand to his daughter. “Elena, my dear,” he said. “If you would be so kind.”</p><p>Hélène accepted her father’s hand with a beautiful smile. He led her out to the dancefloor, and the guests followed suit, and the orchestra melted into a languid waltz, and the room unfurled in a sea of silk shoes and chiffon skirts and tinsel jackets, all glittering in the candlelight. Old Prince Bolkonsky glowered at the dancers over his glass of wine.</p><p>Mary burned with disdain and immediately chastised herself for it.</p><p>After the first waltz had finished, Hélène came gliding back across the ballroom with laughter in her dark eyes. “Might I steal my little brother for just a moment?” she asked. “Mazurkas have always been our favourite. Only if you wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>There followed a beat. Realizing that it was her Hélène had spoken to, Mary startled, then blushed for startling. “Oh!” she said. “No, not at all.”</p><p>Anatole kissed Hélène’s hand and stood from his seat. “It would be an honour, sweet sister.”</p><p>Mary’s eyes followed them as they made their way to the middle of the floor, and the lights of the chandeliers fell upon them and lit them in gold, like beautiful statues, and the music played again for the mazurka. She wondered how it might have felt if she had been brave enough to dance with him. Maybe she would try it in private, once they were alone. Once she was less frightened.</p><p>Across the hall, Pierre could be seen nursing a bottle of wine. Mary averted her eyes for fear he might see her staring.</p><p>After some time, Andrei drew the chair next to her, which Anatole had previously occupied, and seated himself, folding his hands between his knees.</p><p>“You’re looking a little lonely,” he said.</p><p>Mary smiled. How could she have felt even the slightest bit of unhappiness, now that she had everything she had longed for?</p><p>“Not at all,” she said, and took her brother’s hand to kiss it. “Not at all, Andryusha.”</p><p>“You didn’t care for a dance with your husband?”</p><p>The derision in his voice didn’t escape her. But she didn’t suppose he had come to ask her for a waltz either—Andrei had sulked through all of his dance lessons as much as she had cried through hers. And they couldn’t, not when Anatole and Hélène were not even a room away, wheeling about the floor together, their every step perfect and thoughtless.</p><p>Mary bit down a shiver of envy. Lord only knew what her father would have said, watching her trip over her own feet and make an utter fool of herself.</p><p>“It’s only that I’m tired,” she said.</p><p>At that moment, her eyes and ears were drawn again across the room by the sound of Anatole’s laughter, a lovely jubilant sound. Hélène was leaning her head against his shoulder, shaking in silent mirth. Mary’s heart ached at the sight of it.</p><p>This was the sort of family she ought to have belonged to. A doting father. An adoring sister. A loving husband. The family that was properly hers now.</p><p>She imagined, as she so often had since her betrothal, a baby of her own, like the ones she had seen nestled in the arms of their mothers in church. Christenings and name-day parties. Little hands to be held and rosy cheeks to be kissed. The husband smiling tenderly at her and the infant. Happiness.</p><p>But when she turned back to Andrei, there was such a look of sullen misery on his face that it sent an un-Christian pang of hurt echoing through her. Was it really so much to ask that he might be happy for her, she thought hatefully, on today of all days?</p><p>“What’s the matter?” she asked.</p><p>Andrei shook his head. “Nothing.”</p><p>“You look as though something’s upset you.”</p><p>“For Christ’s sake, just because I’m not beaming doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me,” he said.</p><p>Of course, she thought immediately, and could have kicked herself for even asking. How could anything have ever been alright for Andrei again, when Lise was gone and never coming back, and whatever happiness Mary had known in her brother had died with her?</p><p>She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She would not let this hurt her. She would not cry. She would not let anything ruin her happiness, not tonight. She would <em>not</em>.</p><p>Andrei seemed to gather himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose, folding over on himself with all the weary air of a hundred-year-old man. “You still believe in fairy-tales, Masha.”</p><p>Mary felt her throat tighten. “I know people say all sorts of cruel things about them,” she said without knowing why, and at the same time knowing that she never wanted to learn the substance of the rumours about the Kuragin siblings, and that there were things better left unspoken and forgotten. “It’s not true. They’re good people.” She squeezed his hand, not much larger than her own, and ran her thumb over his knuckles. Tears sprang to her eyes. “He <em>loves </em>me, Andrei. More than anything. He told me so himself.”</p><p>“Masha,” he began, sounding a little strained.</p><p>“I know you’re still hurting. I know you don’t love them and I’m not asking you to. But am I not allowed a little bit of happiness in my life?”</p><p>Something in Andrei’s expression shifted—his eyes became distant and still sadder, and he pressed his mouth into a grim line. It might have even been guilt.</p><p>Andrei’s foot had begun to tap under the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said stiffly, rose to his feet, and failed to elaborate. It occurred to Mary she should have asked him not to leave, but the tears were still threatening to spill. She turned her face away and wiped at her eyes furtively.</p><p>He had changed, she thought. Lise had changed him, and she hated it. There was no joy in being a Bolkonsky, whatever divine reward their sufferings may have promised them.</p><p>“Oh, Marie, darling!” came Anna Pavlovna Scherer’s warbling French-accented voice, interrupting her thoughts.</p><p>Mary gave a little panicked gasp and snatched a serviette off the table to dry her eyes. Before she could properly straighten herself, Anna plopped herself down onto the chair beside her and began to prattle on:</p><p>“I’ve hardly seen you at all today, <em>ma chère</em>. You have such a way of vanishing when you’re needed the most. And I’ve been so desperate to offer my congratulations. The ceremony was absolutely lovely.”</p><p>“That’s very kind of you, Madame Scherer,” Mary said quietly.</p><p>“You must call me Annette, darling, really I insist—oh <em>dear</em>,” she said, seeing Mary’s face. “You’ve a little something…”</p><p>Without first asking permission, Anna licked her thumb and rubbed away the stray kohl Amélie had earlier drawn so carefully.</p><p>“There you are,” she said. “Lovely as ever.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Mary murmured. She crumpled the serviette in her hands.</p><p>Anna’s hand found its way under her chin to tip her face up. Her blonde hair was shot through with silver at the temples. It made her look even more elegant than she already did. Mary herself had been plucking grey hairs for three years now.</p><p>“A married woman ought to be dancing with her husband. Especially at her own wedding,” Anna said, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>Mary coerced her mouth into a feeble smile. “I’m not a dancing sort of person.”</p><p>Anna’s sharp grey eyes scanned the table. She plucked a glass of a pale amber liquid from a waiter’s tray and pressed it into Mary’s hands. “This ought to help with that.”</p><p>Thinking of Pierre, Mary drank. The champagne went down in a shower of bubbles. A pleasant sort of warmth rose in her chest. She decided she liked it far better than the vodka.</p><p>“We were all so happy to see you finally wedded,” said Anna. “And to such a lovely young man! It’s not easy at your age, my darling, I know how things are, but somehow you’ve made yourself into the envy of all Russia. You’re a very lucky woman.”</p><p>Mary felt herself smile again, but the feel of it now was more natural than forced. “I am.”</p><p>“If you remember,” continued Anna proudly as she touched Mary’s cheek, her voice a little clearer and sharper now, “it was my idea to introduce you to Prince Anatole.”</p><p>Mary knew this, as did everyone who had been involved in the whole affair, but Anna spoke with the sort of earnest insistence of a person who felt she had not yet been properly thanked. Pride was a sin, however unintentional it may have been, but then again, so was ingratitude.</p><p>“And for that I am most grateful,” Mary said.</p><p>Anna looked even more self-satisfied than before. “Even then, I knew that you two would be an absolutely darling match. As I’ve always said, the old maids <em>ont la manie de mariages</em>.”</p><p>The smile fell from Mary’s face. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said without thinking, and though she couldn’t properly explain why, she felt that she had somehow been insulted.</p><p>Anna squeezed her shoulder. “I should be off now. Forgive me for my haste, but I ought to offer my congratulations to Prince Vasily.” As she began to gather her skirts, she paused and said, “Say, have you properly greeted <em>ma tante</em> yet?”</p><p>The night traipsed on, and Mary was greeted and congratulated and thanked by an endless string of relations and unrelated guests, and all the while through the ballroom windows she watched the moon trace its way across the sky. As the hour-hand on the clock neared three, Vasily tapped a dessert spoon against his glass until the ringing crystal echoed and the room fell silent.</p><p>“<em>Mesdames et messieurs</em>,” he said, “perhaps we ought to leave the newlyweds to their own devices, eh?”</p><p>A smattering of applause and laughter rose from the audience. Mary felt someone slip their hand into hers.</p><p>Mary’s stomach twisted itself into a giddy nervous knot, half at the thought of being alone with Anatole, half at the sight of Amélie, who had suddenly appeared at her side, familiar as her own shadow. Mary could barely remember a time before Amélie was her constant companion. And while Mary had stayed plain, Amélie had only grown more beautiful with every year that passed.</p><p>Tonight, though, for the first time in her life, Mary was not set alight with jealousy at the thought of it.</p><p>Amélie softly brushed Mary’s cheek with her thumb. “You didn’t like your makeup, Princess?” she said.</p><p>Mary flushed. “It’s been a long night,” she said. “That’s all.”</p><p>Amélie sighed indulgently, as if to say <em>what ever am I to do with you</em>, and tugged at her hand. “Come with me, <em>ma petite</em>.”</p><p>A cool night wind had drifted into the hall. Night stretched the shadows of everything; great creeping fingers of darkness ran the length of the corridor. Were it any colder she might have seen her breath curling out in little clouds of ice.</p><p>Suddenly she found herself in her room, standing before the mirror, and Amelie was unpinning her hair. Dark austere wallpaper surrounded dark austere furniture. Against the middle of the wall there stood an enormous four-poster bed drawn with heavy velvet curtains.</p><p>The night would be cold, as it always was in Bald Hills. But tonight, she would sleep with warmth in her arms.</p><p>“You look lovely, you know,” Amélie said, her breath warm and fragrant against Mary’s cheek.</p><p>Mary smiled timidly at her reflection while Amélie unfastened her necklace. Looking in the glass, she saw she was pretty. Perhaps even beautiful. No longer the wilting mousy girl shut up in a dreary house, miserable and alone while her years and life slipped away. No longer a <em>Marya</em> but a <em>Marie</em>.</p><p>“Thank you, Meli,” she said, remembering herself.</p><p>With slim clever fingers, Amélie unlaced her stays and pulled them over her head. Underneath, she wore a thin shift, a pretty silk thing trimmed with lace from her new mother and sister. Mary flushed hotly at the sight of herself, thin and shapeless as she was.</p><p>Teasingly, Amélie slipped her arms around Mary’s waist. A good three inches shorter than Mary, she had to stand on her tiptoes to rest her chin on Mary’s shoulder. “Oh, Princess,” she said, taking in Mary’s reflection, her eyes wide and dark. “Isn’t this something.”</p><p>Mary felt a wild girlish laugh bubble out of her. It tasted of champagne. “What do you mean?” she said breathlessly.</p><p>“Your husband is a lucky man, <em>ma petite</em>,” Amélie murmured.</p><p>“I’m the lucky one.”</p><p>A smile graced the corner of Amélie’s lovely pink mouth. “You’ll tell me all the sordid details in the morning, won’t you?”</p><p>Mary knew she should’ve been scandalized by that sort of question, but everything seemed so wonderful and funny now all she could do was giggle helplessly.</p><p>The door opened again with a rush of cold air. Mary and Amélie fell silent and turned their heads to the hallway as Anatole entered the room carrying a decanter and a half-empty glass of wine, his suit jacket sling over the crook of his elbow. Stripped to his braces with his cravat untied and his collar untucked, he looked more dishevelled than she had ever seen him.</p><p>Amélie gave Mary’s shoulder another squeeze. She regarded Anatole with a strange pleasant look that Mary couldn’t quite name. Then she closed the door behind her, and Mary and Anatole were alone together, properly alone, for the first time.</p><p>Anatole shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of an armchair. He went to stand by the bureau, his back to her, and poured himself a drink from the decanter. His hair glowed faintly in the candlelight, a halo of gold like an icon, his profile lit honey. Mary felt herself struck with fear and wanting all at once. She was overcome with the inexplicable urge to take his face in her hands and kiss him, and all the same, the very thought of it made her weak at the knees.</p><p>Patience was a virtue, she told herself. And so she seated herself on the edge of the mattress, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for him to join her.</p><p>A minute passed. Anatole did not turn around.</p><p>Patience was a virtue, granted, but the champagne had made her bold and impatient, heightened her desires and fear all at once, and she had done her share of waiting. It wasn’t even meant to hurt, Hélène had told her, not if you took all the proper measures and precautions, whatever those were. There was nothing to fear. And a woman like Hélène had to be trusted in matters like this. </p><p>Shyly, with a little nervous tremor, Mary came up behind him, put her arms around his slender waist, and tucked her chin into the crook of his neck. Anatole gave a little jump in surprise. His hair smelled of jasmine and vetiver, exquisite and intoxicating. Her lips found the soft skin of his jaw. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw him close his eyes and sigh.</p><p>Easy to understand now why men and women lived and died for this sort of intimacy. Anatole was beautifully slim in her arms, soft as an angel. Through his shirt he felt lean and narrow. She wondered how he would feel beneath it, how warm his skin would be against hers.</p><p>Mary blushed happily, trembling as she was. She felt herself melt below the waist. How long she had struggled with temptation, the sinful urges that haunted her late at night and sullied her thoughts.</p><p>But she was allowed this now. There was no sin or shame in this anymore, now that he was hers. Now that she was <em>his</em>. Emboldened, she pressed herself flush to his back, kissed his neck, and began to work at the buttons of his shirt.</p><p>“Marie, <em>ma chère</em>,” he said, twisting around to face her, “I’m not going to make love to you tonight.”</p><p>Mary hesitated for a beat. Hélène hadn’t warned her of this. Perhaps the long evening had tired him. Or she had offended him with her boldness. Of course, she thought, and almost laughed at her own ignorance. They had kissed all of three times, twice today, and now she expected him to bare his very soul to her.</p><p>She smiled and ran her trembling fingers down his arm. “It’s alright,” she said, flushing a little. “I’m nervous too. But we’ll take our time, my love. As much time as you need.”</p><p>“I think you’ve misunderstood. I don’t have any intention of ever making love to you. Please allow me to bid you goodnight.”</p><p>Mary felt herself go cold, every inch of her. She stood back, watching but not understanding as he stepped away from the bureau.</p><p>She had misheard him. She must have. No other possible explanation.</p><p>“Darling,” she said, and plaintively twined herself around his arm to stop him from leaving, “I know this is all frightening and strange, but we’ve waited so long for—”</p><p>Gently, Anatole extricated himself and said, with disarming politeness, “The fact of the matter is that I’m not in love with you, Marie.”</p><p>A cold shock of dread went through her. Her arms fell limp and unfeeling to her sides. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“And as a general rule, I make a point not to sleep with people I don’t love. It’s nothing personal.”</p><p>Her bottom lip began to wobble dangerously. “But you said you loved me,” she said as a sore lump rose in her throat. “You—you begged for my hand. You brought me flowers, you wrote me <em>letters</em>—”</p><p>“Well, you wouldn’t have agreed to marry me if I hadn’t,” he said, as simply as if saying that Russia was cold in the winter.</p><p>Mary threaded her trembling hands together. She couldn’t quite seem to meet his gaze. “Explain yourself.”</p><p>Anatole poured himself another drink and screwed his eyes shut as he downed it. “Papa’s had an eye on your dowry for years now. Truth be told, I wouldn’t put it past him to sell me to the Russian Circus if it meant making a few roubles.” He stoppered the decanter with distaste, as though suffering some great wrongdoing. “My mother was practically given to him in marriage for status. And now the family tradition lives on.”</p><p>She thought of Prince Vasily and his kind words and paternal manners, <em>my dear Marya Nikolaevna, what a joy it would be to welcome you to our family, we feel as though you’re our daughter already.</em> Beautiful Hélène in her pearls and chiffon, her lipstick kisses, <em>I’ve always longed for a sister, what a lovely bride you’ll make, I couldn’t be happier for you</em>.</p><p>“The difference between my mother and I,” he continued, now with a cheerful sort of uptick that felt insultingly out of step with the situation, “is that you can’t terrorize me the way my father can.”</p><p>Mary felt her lip twitch. “I would never—”</p><p>“No, I don’t doubt it.”</p><p>All the air had gone out of her. “But I love you,” she said weakly. “I thought you wanted me. I wanted—I <em>wanted</em> you to want me.”</p><p>Anatole gave a look as if to say, <em>yes, I generally have that effect on people</em>, and turned his attention back to his drink.</p><p>Mary felt a deep dreadful ache inside her as her heart sank and withered. Another time, she might have fled and hid and wept. But anger burned hotter than shame.</p><p>She had been lied to. He had <em>lied</em> to her. So little she had asked of this life. So much she had given and sacrificed. And now, when all she had ever wanted was laid in front of her, it was snatched away. All her patience and waiting and suffering silence, everything she was owed, all for nothing. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.</p><p>“You promised me this,” she said.</p><p>Anatole gave her a perplexed look, still smiling a little, as though she had just announced her intention to move to the moon. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“We are married,” she said. “We promised to consummate our union.”</p><p>“All we did was stand in a church and read some words.”</p><p>“They’re more than words,” she said, with growing fervour. “This is sacred. This is our divine obligation to the Almighty, our <em>duty</em> to bring forth life—”</p><p>“What,” he said, and sounded just short of laughter, “am I compelled to fuck you just because I gave you a ring? Is that how you think this works?”</p><p>Mary flinched back at the word <em>fuck</em>, the sound of it unspeakably vile, and felt sick to her stomach. She had never imagined she might hear something so ugly in his voice. Who was this stranger standing in front of her saying these awful things? Where was the man who had tenderly kissed her hand and declared his undying devotion to her on bended knee?</p><p>“It’s our wedding night,” she said helplessly. Her voice became thin and weak. “It’s expected of us.”</p><p>Anatole laughed, a sharp thoughtless <em>ha</em> that burned like the vodka. “See if I give a damn,” he said, and went for another drink. The decanter seemed to evade him for a minute.</p><p>Mary felt her heart beating in her throat as she watched him, this man she no longer recognized or knew. Shame and hurt and despair welled up in her until surely there was no room left for anything else.</p><p>Motherhood, a loving husband, the family she had longed for, the future she had dreamed of. All of it slipping further and further away with every passing second. Her fingers went on instinct to her sternum, where her crucifix would have hung, only to remember that it was on the vanity.</p><p>No, she thought. It didn’t have to end this way.</p><p>Divorce would be unthinkable, an outrage, a scandal, and so horrendously soon, but if it would be her ruin it would only be his as well, and there was something to be said for mutually-assured destruction. He wouldn’t want that. And a reluctant husband was better than no husband at all.</p><p>“Then I’ll divorce you,” she said.</p><p>Anatole shook his head, as if speaking to a child. “No, you won’t.”</p><p>“The marriage isn’t valid as long as it’s unconsummated,” she said, and though her voice trembled she forced herself to hold her chin high. “I’ll go to the Church and tell them you refused me.”</p><p>“No, you won’t,” he repeated. “I’ll just say you’re lying. And even then, you won’t find another man who’ll take a divorcée at your age.”</p><p>Mary recoiled as if struck. The awful coldness in her chest sank and hardened further. Tears welled in her eyes. She shrank in on herself like a crying child, like the frightened little girl her father raged at, curling her fingers in the gauzy fabric of her skirt, and stared at the floor. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. All around her, the world quaked and cracked, fissures running through it like the shattered panes of a mirror.</p><p>Across the room, uncaring and unnoticing, Anatole tipped back the decanter until, with a look of disappointment, he saw that it would give no more.</p><p>“Well,” he said drily, staring into the empty glass, “I suppose I should be off. Now that we’re both thoroughly miserable with this arrangement. Goodnight, Marie. Sleep well.”</p><p>He kissed her cheek, but Mary was numb to it. Then he took the decanter off the bureau, re-buttoned his shirt, fixed his hair in the mirror, and took his leave.</p><p>Mary sank back onto the bed, clutching her arms around herself. All that night, she sat alone in the dark, her head spinning, too unfeeling to even cry, until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Anatole's first day in the Bald Hills.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HELL YEAH A DOUBLE POST DAY BABEY </p><p>On a more serious note, thank you all for your incredibly kind and supportive words on our last chapter. We know it's repetitive to say we deeply treasure them, but they honestly mean the world to us. </p><p>ON TO THE ADVENTURES OF RATBOI AND SAD GIRL!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anatole had never intended to get married, but his father had never been particularly considerate towards his plans.</p><p><em>We know she’s not a looker, son</em>, <em>but she’s a virtuous woman, </em>Vasily had said<em>. You should be grateful I’ve found you such a promising match. </em>Gripping his arm hard, with a sort of urgent insistence, he had added, <em>Remember, for you, everything depends on this.</em></p><p>Anatole sighed and wished the memories away. He was horribly hungover, which was the only reason he was awake at this hour. The bell for breakfast had rung a good ten or so minutes ago, and they would be expecting him in the dining room, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. After everything he’d been put through the night before—Mary’s cold awkwardness, her clumsy kiss, that joke of a ceremony—he was damn well entitled to a lie-in. No doubt his family had already packed their bags, eager to hurry back to the comfort of Petersburg. He had half a mind to join them.</p><p>In the midst of his slough of misery, the door opened. Anatole stiffened under the sheets until he realized who had walked in.</p><p>“There you are,” said Hélène. Immaculately-groomed as ever, she was dressed this morning in a shade of blue so bright it hurt his eyes. With brisk strides, she crossed the room and flung the curtains open, flooding the room with blinding light.</p><p>Anatole groaned and threw his arm over his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Lena!”</p><p>“I’ve been looking for you for almost half an hour. You’re late for breakfast.”</p><p>“What do I care?” he whined. “Isn’t this farce over yet?”</p><p>“I must say, I didn’t expect to find you here. You’ve found quite the hiding-place for yourself.”</p><p>“Well, where the hell else am I supposed to be?”</p><p>“I don’t know, Toto,” she said drily. “Perhaps with your wife?”</p><p>At the words <em>your wife</em>, Anatole cringed. Even now, it sounded hideously domestic and unnatural. He was too young to be married, with too much life left in him. Marriage was a sham drawn up by hidebound old men who didn’t understand a thing about the world, who didn’t know how life was meant to be lived. You had to be mad, shackling yourself down to someone else for the rest of your days and expecting any happiness out of it.</p><p>Hélène sighed. She always knew what he was thinking, often before he had even thought it himself. The mattress dipped as she climbed onto the mattress beside him, wrinkling the sheets. Anatole lowered his arm to look at her. He wanted badly to be angry with her, but it was impossible. Hélène was all the laughter and light of the world wrapped up in a body, and soon she would be gone and he would be all alone in this awful place.</p><p>“Don’t you start on me too,” he said, pouting.</p><p>Hélène took on the expression of a cat toying with a mouse. “I really can’t imagine what you’ve done to upset her. The poor girl looks as though she’s been crying her eyes out all night. I think the brother’s just about ready to duel you.”</p><p>“He can if he wants,” he said. “It’d be the most excitement they’ve seen in years, I’m sure.”</p><p>“Oh, come now, Toto, is that any way to treat your new family?”</p><p>Anatole scowled. He’d thought Hélène had landed an unfortunate match with Pierre Bezukhov, who sat in his study twiddling his thumbs, drunk more often than not. This, now, was an absolute insult. Back in Petersburg, people whispered that Princess Mary favoured women, that her father was a raging maniac who had chased away every suitor who had ever dared to call upon her, that a curse hung over the Bolkonsky house and she was the cause of it.</p><p>But in the end, she was rich, filthily so, which was all that had really mattered. Little wonder Vasily had been so anxious to march the both of them down the aisle. And soon the dowry would be bound up in the mortgage, or in renovations, or whatever else it was Vasily had already tied his purse-strings to. </p><p>Anatole understood now, far too well, the way Hélène seemed to have always instinctively known, how it felt to be a pawn in someone else’s game.</p><p>“Now tell me,” she said, “what the hell <em>are</em> you doing here?”</p><p>“Sleeping.”</p><p>“You know what I mean, idiot.”</p><p>Anatole groaned. He didn’t much care to delve into what had happened last night, but knowing his sister, she would weasel it out of him one way or another. Better to get it out of the way now, before she could hound him, or concoct something of her own.</p><p>“It was a nightmare, Lena," he said. "She started pawing at me as soon as the door closed. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t rip any of my clothes.”</p><p>Hélène laughed harder than she had any right to. “So did you end up—?”</p><p>Anatole flushed petulantly. “Of course not! I have standards, believe it or not. She was being difficult, so I left and wandered around until I found an empty room. And here I am.”</p><p>“My God, Tolya,” she said. “And here I’d thought you’d just given the poor little mouse a bad lay. You’ve probably broken her heart.”</p><p>“You don’t get to criticize me for this,” he said.</p><p>“I absolutely do,” she said, pushing herself upright. “Pierre didn’t cry at breakfast the next morning.”</p><p>Anatole groaned and threw his head back against the pillow. “You’re not serious.”</p><p>“It’s alright for now,” she said. “No one’s said anything about it yet. But you need to be <em>careful</em>, Toto.”</p><p>“Bugger off,” he said. “I’m trying to sleep.”</p><p>Suddenly the quilt was snapped back. Anatole yowled like a drenched cat and leapt after the bedclothes.</p><p>“Up,” she said, sternly now. “Out of bed.”</p><p>“<em>Lena</em>!”</p><p>“You can either get up now,” she said, already halfway out the door, “or Papa will come looking and drag you downstairs himself. Your choice.”</p><p>Though he wouldn’t have put it past Vasily to do just that, it was another twenty minutes before he was able to drag his body, still aching from the polka, out of bed. He dressed without much thought or rush, ran a hand through his hair without bothering to comb or pomade it, splashed some water on his face, and took his time finding his way to the dining room.</p><p>Breakfast at Bald Hills was a humble affair, by Russian standards. Plain buttered bread and jam, tea served with cream and sugar, poached eggs and porridge, all served on plain china. There were his parents, his sister, Andrei Bolkonsky—Anatole refused to ever think of him as his brother-in-law. Pierre, having indulged himself rather excessively in the champagne the night before, seemed halfway to nodding off into his bowl of porridge.</p><p>True enough, Mary’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Dressed in a shapeless grey frock with her hair braided up and the makeup scrubbed off, she looked far older and plainer than he remembered. Now there was a face only a mother could have loved, and even then if she had been half-blind herself. When she saw him, she flushed an unbecoming red and lowered her gaze shamefully.</p><p>Anatole knew he was handsome, knew the sort of effect he had had on women since roughly the age of sixteen, but <em>honestly</em>, this was just ridiculous.</p><p>“And here he is at last!” crowed the elder Prince Bolkonsky from his seat at the head of the table. He was dressed, Anatole noted, in his underthings. “Have you decided to do away with schedules, boy?”</p><p>“A man’s allowed to sleep in after his own wedding,” Vasily said. “Too much champagne, eh, son?”</p><p>Anatole forced himself to smile. He stiffly kissed his parents on their cheeks, then let Hélène tug him down into the seat beside hers.</p><p>The conversation was general and unmemorable. Pierre seemed too drunk to talk, Andrei too unwilling. Kuragin charm and false politeness clashed with sullen Bolkonsky insolence. Prince Bolkonsky groaned about the cost of the reception, while Aline and Vasily politely tittered at his complaints and ignored the way their children sat apart from their spouses.</p><p>And all the while, when she thought he couldn’t see, Mary kept sneaking furtive glances. So meek now it was hard to believe the little churchmouse had ever been so bold. The nerve of her, he thought, and felt himself grow indignant again at the memory, expecting him to do whatever she pleased.</p><p>At the very least, it seemed last night’s problem had resolved itself—however bold she may have been the night before, Mary could hardly meet his eye now. Good.</p><p>Anatole was quick to content himself with his own sort of integrity. He hadn’t wanted to deceive her, and he’d had no say in the matter either. It wasn’t his fault his father had decided to pair them together. And if it upset her, well, it was easy enough to put that out of mind so long as he didn’t look at her for too long.</p><p>“I don’t know how you’ve done it, Kuragin,” Bolkonsky said, eyeing Hélène. “God only knows how you ended up with two lookers in the family.”</p><p>“Well, we all wish for perfect children, don’t we?” Vasily said. “It’s the most we can wish for. And we love them in spite of their faults.”</p><p>“They’ve been well-raised,” said Aline with a simpering smile.</p><p>“Well-bred, I’d say,” Vasily said proudly, in that smooth voice of his that expected the whole room to drop what they were doing and listen. “The Kuragin line traces its ancestry back to the princely House of Patrikeyev, which in turn descends from the Gedimin dynasty of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. We’re distant relations of the sovereign as well, of course, through the cadet branch of the—”</p><p>“For God’s sake, Marya,” Bolkonsky cut in, “what are you moping on about now?”</p><p>Mary startled, looking for all the world like a spooked horse, then ducked her head, her thin face even more blotchy and flushed than before. “Nothing, Father.”</p><p>At the interruption, Vasily pressed his lips into a thin line with an expression that said nothing, though the displeasure was evident in his silence. But he wouldn’t return the slight, not here, where any sort of outburst would only break the illusion of his saintly patience. Pity, Anatole thought. He had missed out on a fine career on the stage.</p><p>Bolkonsky took the table knife and began to butter his bread in a decidedly aggressive manner. “I’ve never cared all that much for fops and dandies, you know,” he said to Vasily. “But Marya’s always had <em>such </em>a taste for them. Yesterday she was mooning like a lovestruck fool—now look at the face on her. You’d almost think nothing would make this one happy!”</p><p>Vasily gave a false polite laugh. “New brides often have difficulties on the wedding night.”</p><p>Aline said, so low that he wouldn’t hear, “You would know, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>The fork paused halfway to Anatole’s mouth. Hélène wrinkled her nose and set her spoon down on the table.</p><p>“How old are you again, boy?” Bolkonsky said, pointing to Anatole with his knife.</p><p>Anatole hesitated in answering. This was some sort of trick, though he couldn’t fathom why or how. “Twenty-three, sir.”</p><p>Bolkonsky laughed, a creaky rattling sound. “My God, Marya, he could practically be your son!”</p><p>The Kuragins politely elected to pretend nothing had been said. Mary, twenty-nine herself, seemed to contemplate diving under the table for cover.</p><p>Anatole might have felt an ounce of pity for her had he not been so busy pitying himself instead. It couldn’t have been bad enough the wife was ugly, he thought grimly. No, the father-in-law had to be a raging imbecile with a mind like a leaky sieve as well.</p><p>Bolkonsky wasn’t done yet. Spittle and bits of half-chewed egg flew from his mouth as he spoke. “Do you know how much her dowry was?”</p><p>“Papa, please,” Mary began.</p><p>“Now then, there’s really no need for all that,” Vasily said, a little tersely now.</p><p>“Too damn much!” Bolkonsky bellowed. “And for what?” He speared a sausage on the end of his fork. “A freeloading dandy with more hair than sense.”</p><p>There was a line, Anatole thought, that decent people knew better than to cross, and Bolkonsky had proudly trod all over it. He hadn’t wanted this. Hadn’t wanted the godforsaken dowry or the wedding or the wife or any of it. And this man had the gall to insult him for it. It was all so stupid and unfair he wanted to scream.</p><p>“Now, <em>really</em>,” said Vasily.</p><p>Bolkonsky spoke over him. “I’ve held my tongue long enough! I said I’d agree to the match, I never said I’d be happy about it. I didn’t invite you here. You people’ve come to disturb my life, and I tell you, there’s not much of it left. And this one!” He gestured to his daughter. “The first man that turns up and bothers to notice her, and she forgets about her father entirely. How’s that for loyalty, Marya, eh?” By now the old man had worked himself up into quite a fuss. His face was ruddy and his voice had gone hoarse, and his black eyes shone wetly. “She thinks she’s too good for me now. Well, she isn’t. All the money I’ve spent and she’s too stupid to be grateful.”</p><p>“Father,” Andrei snapped.</p><p>“I wasn’t talking to you, boy,” Bolkonsky snapped back. “You’re no better, after all that carry-on with what’s-her-name.”</p><p>Andrei stood so sharply and suddenly the chair shrieked out behind him a good three feet or so. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles white and taut. Mary fixed her large grey eyes on him imploringly. <em>Please don’t leave me here,</em> she seemed to say. <em>Not with them.</em></p><p>Andrei stalked out without another word. Pierre glanced after him worriedly and started up from his seat, then hesitated, as if afraid of looking impolite.</p><p>“Oh, go on,” Hélène said.</p><p>Pierre squeezed her hand in thanks and set off after Andrei. Mary had her head low, her eyes fixed on her plate. There could be heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and clanging china from the kitchen, and not much else.</p><p>You really had to pity them, Anatole thought idly, as he helped himself to another poached egg. It was no wonder why the Bolkonskys were the unfortunate way they were. With a father like that, what chance did anyone stand?</p><p>Bolkonsky took off his spectacles and began to polish the lenses with his napkin. He sniffled several times. “Bring me my pipe.”</p><p>Mary’s voice, tearful and thin, was just a hair above a whisper. “Yes, Father.”</p><p>The conversation was dead after that. The Kuragins quickly left the room, not wanting to be further subject to Prince Bolkonsky’s presence. In an hour or so, they were gathered at the front door, all packed and prepared to leave for the one o’clock train to Petersburg.</p><p>Anatole and his parents said goodbye mechanically, a kiss on the cheek, a promise to keep in touch neither intended to keep. Pierre, blinking in the mid-morning daylight, his eyes enormous behind his glasses, awkwardly held out a hand for Anatole to shake.</p><p>But when it came to his sister, all the misery he had been putting off since the engagement was announced came crashing down on him. They had said goodbye to each other before already, after her own wedding, yet somehow it hurt just as badly as it had the first time. Anatole pulled her into his arms, so abruptly that he heard her gasp. Her embrace was familiar, comforting. He remembered being half her height, running to her in tears after a nightmare or a skinned knee or one of their father’s rages. She had always been there, and now she wouldn’t be.</p><p>“I’ll miss you,” he whispered.</p><p>Hélène softly carded a hand through his hair. “Don’t be so sentimental,” she said, gently deriding. “I’m only in Moscow. Only a day away.”</p><p>Anatole nodded and hid his face in the crook of her neck, not caring how childish and pathetic he must have looked. He swallowed down a sob, his heart in his throat.</p><p>Vasily cleared his throat and tapped at his pocket-watch. “We’ll be late, Elena. Come along now.”</p><p>“I’ll write you as soon as I’m home,” she said, holding Anatole by the elbows. “I promise.” Lowering her voice, she added, “We’ll drink to these two nightmares next time we’re together.”</p><p>After they were gone, a cold sort of silence settled over the house. Boredom crept in with it. Anatole grew restless and irate. Surely, there were better things in life than dithering around an old country estate like this, with its dull grey people inside its dull grey walls. If Andrei had challenged him to a duel, it wouldn’t have been much fun, but it would’ve been <em>something</em>.</p><p>Anatole wandered without thought or direction. Dark and drafty, with tall ceilings and creaking floors, the house stretched on endlessly in all directions like some Labyrinth. Here and there were locked doors, boarded-up windows, dusty hallways and empty stairwells. In one room, a piano, horrendously out of tune. And everywhere he went were candles and icons bearing the dimly-lit face of Christ.</p><p>Already, he missed Petersburg like a missing limb. The ache of it had burrowed into his chest between his ribs, where it hung heavy and sore in the place where his heart might have been. He missed the city streets and music, the glittering onion-domes and marble buildings. He missed Dolokhov, the fierce infantry captain who entertained him with stories of Persia and the Caucasus. He missed Balaga and Steshka and Matryosha, the troupe of Romani musicians who lived down by the river, who had welcomed him into their fold. Most of all he missed Hélène, his other half, more than a friend, more than his sister, more than anyone else in the world.</p><p>But misery was only miserable as far as you let it. He would be damned if he let this place and its people ruin his fun any more than they already had.</p><p>In the salon there were still an ungodly number of wedding presents to unpack—bedding and tablecloths and towels, china and candlesticks and silverware, all sorts of domestic menial things he held no use or care for—but if he knew his sister, which he certainly did, there had to be expensive alcohol in there somewhere.</p><p>In a minute of poking around, he found a case of Veuve Clicquot. What a delightful little surprise, he thought, and in an instant all the world was not over anymore. It would’ve done him well to have a friend here, but you couldn’t be miserable with a bottle of fine wine in you.</p><p>Anatole silently thanked Hélène for her foresight as he picked up a bottle and popped the cork, and the champagne fizzed in the bottle, golden and perfect. He set off again, happily this time, with that familiar warmth in his chest and that light pleasant taste on his tongue.</p><p>As he passed by the open doorway of a drawing-room, he heard murmuring voices and saw Mary sitting at a davenport desk beside a little boy, with the same dark curls, stubborn nose, and square chin as Andrei. Mary smiled as she read aloud from an open book. The smile transformed her face, softened it into something almost lovely.</p><p>“<em>Otche nash, yizhe yeci na nebecikh,</em>” she said to the little boy. Anatole supposed this was the nephew. His nephew, now. “Can you repeat that for me, Nikolushka?”</p><p>Nikolushka was too busy staring at the door. Mary gently pried Nikolushka’s hand out of his mouth. </p><p>“Nikolushka,” she said with a heavy sigh, “will you please pay attention?”</p><p>“Tante, there’s a man!” he said.</p><p>Mary followed Nikolushka’s gaze to Anatole. She took him in, wide-eyed, his curious expression and the bottle in his hand, then got to her feet and slammed the door shut so hard it made him jump.</p><p>“There!” he heard her say to her nephew, her voice muffled by the door. “No more distractions. Let’s get on with it now.”</p><p>Anatole stood there for a full minute, so flabbergasted and insulted he hardly noticed the champagne spilling down his hand.</p><p>The rude little shrew, he thought sourly, and stalked away from the door. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. No wonder no one had ever bothered to look at her twice before Vasily had caught a whiff of her fortune. It was all well enough. He hadn’t wanted her company anyway.</p><p>The hours plodded along unhurriedly, and Anatole grew bored again. Familiar rooms passed him by over and over as he went on in circles. After some time and a good three-quarters of the bottle, as the sun had begun inching down the sky, he found himself in another hallway very much like every other hallway in the house, a room with mirror-lined walls that smelled faintly of dust. When he turned his head, he saw his face, flushed with champagne, reflected back at him a thousand times over down an endless corridor of mirrors.</p><p>His own reflection, however, was far less interesting than the faintly-glowing image of a woman who appeared behind him.</p><p>Anatole whirled around, staggering in place. She was even lovelier than her reflection. Lovelier than anyone else in this house, lovelier still than anyone else he had ever met. Golden-haired, her face was square and sharp-featured, with wide cheekbones and the slightest overbite he couldn’t help but find incredibly charming.</p><p>“Prince Kuragin,” she said in Russian.</p><p>The tits on this one, Anatole thought, and smiled to himself. Mary must have fancied her too, if the eyes she had given her last night were any indication. It dimly occurred to him that it was improper for her to be here with him, alone. But the champagne had gone to his head and loosened his thoughts and senses.</p><p>“My father is Prince Kuragin,” he said, slurring a little. “I much prefer ‘Anatole’, if it pleases you.”</p><p><em>It does</em>, said her smile. Her teeth were perfectly white and straight. “Mademoiselle Bourienne.”</p><p><em>Mais charmante</em>. What an enchanting creature she was. Now there was a nose that belonged on a coin, a pair of eyes you could drown in, a smile you could write sonnets about. It was criminal, cloistering away a beauty like this in the Bald Hills.</p><p>“That’s hardly a proper Russian name,” he said.</p><p>“Well, I’m not a proper Russian.”</p><p>He heard it now, the Gallic tilt to her vowels, the guttural r’s, the lilting cadence in her sentences. “French?” he offered. “Or perhaps Swiss?”</p><p>She sniffed haughtily. “Parisian.”</p><p>Anatole felt a laugh bubble up in his chest for the first time in what felt like years. “Do you have a Christian name, <em>mademoiselle parisienne</em>?” he asked, in French now.</p><p>“I’m Amélie.”</p><p>“Amélie,” he repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue. Exquisite. Romantic, in every sense of the word. Beautifully suited to her. He bowed his head charmingly, a gesture he had learned by copying his father. “I must have missed you at the reception.”</p><p>“It’s not for the help to be invited,” she said, her smile tightening.</p><p>“What a terrible shame.”</p><p>“You know, Anatole,” she said, tilting her head, a curious implacable look about her, “the last time I tried conversing with a Russian prince, he wasn’t quite so nice.”</p><p>“I don’t believe we’re quite all the same, we Russian princes.”</p><p>In polite society it was generally frowned upon to flirt with the maids, and Hélène would have called him a fool for it, and there would be hell to pay if he was caught, but Anatole was drunk and happy, and he had never much been one to tolerate the notion of consequences. He didn’t suppose <em>she</em> was suffering her spouse and not entertaining herself with all of Moscow’s brilliant young men. It was his God-given right to have fun if it pleased him, and it did.</p><p>“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Amélie. “I think you’ve done something to upset the princess,”</p><p>“I don’t know what would’ve given you that impression.”</p><p>“She told me such a shocking story,” she said, sounding amused. “It upset me terribly. But I couldn’t possibly believe you’d be cruel enough to refuse your own wife.”</p><p>Anatole bordered on laughter. Of all the shocking things that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours, he had perhaps least expected Mary to gossip about her own sex life. “To be perfectly honest,” he said, “she bored me terribly.”</p><p>Amélie’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into her hairline. That smile of hers widened delightfully.</p><p>“What,” he said, laughing now. “Are you surprised? I still have free will even if I’m married, don’t I?”</p><p>Amélie took a tantalizing step forward. He could smell her perfume, something faintly floral, perhaps lavender or rose. He wondered if she could smell his cologne. “So, she’s not properly your wife.”</p><p>What did Vasily know, with his ideas of pedigree and status? For all the blue blood running in her veins, Mary was still ugly as sin. And this woman—no, this <em>goddess</em>—was a glittering pearl buried in the country, wasted on these dull people.</p><p>“No,” Anatole said. “I don’t suppose she would be.”</p><p>Amélie ran her eyes up and down his front. She seemed to be imagining all a manner of vile and lewd things about him. Anatole grinned. He would give her anything she wanted, this bewitching woman, without a second’s thought, strip naked right here if she asked it of him, and he almost hoped she would.</p><p>“It’s a pity,” she said. “For her, I mean.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>The bottle was in her hands before he even realized it. She took a long swig, and drained the rest of it in one go without blinking.</p><p>“If you were my husband,” she said, pressing the bottle back into his hands, “I wouldn’t have let you leave.”</p><p>Then she smiled again, something crafty and self-satisfied, before turning on her heel and leaving. Anatole watched her go with wide eyes, his head spinning. What a curious development this had turned out to be.</p><p>Looking at his reflection in the mirror again, he couldn’t help but smile. There was happiness to be found anywhere, if you looked in the right place. And if there was this bit of happiness in the Bald Hills, perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful here after all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which every man at the Bald Hills is a complete imbecile.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Poor Mary (we would die for this awkward nut) </p><p>Also please be advised that this chapter contains reference to/ a minor scene of  parental emotional abuse. Please read with caution!!</p><p>Also thank you so much for all of the support this fic has gotten! Seeing the incredibly warm reception it has received is hugely motivating.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Only a few days later, Andrei left for Otradnoe to pay a visit to the Rostovs, leaving Mary at the mercy of their father’s undivided attention.</p><p>A married woman should have had a home of her own, a place where she could run a household without her father’s supervision. But Prince Bolkonsky was ill, despite all protests to the contrary, and so Mary’s routine continued just as it had before she was married—up at seven o’clock for a brisk walk around the grounds before breakfast at eight, then lessons with her father until noon. Within his arsenal there was rhetoric, grammar, politics, classics on occasion, woodworking when the mood struck him. But geometry she feared and dreaded most of all.</p><p>Mary took her lessons in her father’s study, a crowded dusty room that always smelled faintly of mothballs and tea. Bolkonsky sat in an overstuffed chair at his desk wearing a powdered wig and his old uniform jacket, a tattered thing weighed down by a dozen medals that should have been thrown in the furnace years ago. His spectacles were slipping down his nose, already covered in smudged fingerprints, even though she had cleaned them just that morning.</p><p>“Right, then. Let me see your problem set,” he said, holding out an expectant hand.</p><p>Mary swallowed down a sigh as she handed over her notebook. This was how it always started, and her last few moments of peace until the lesson was over. She heard him counting under his breath as he ran his eyes over the page, pausing every now and then to frown and fiddle with his spectacles.</p><p>“It’s incredible,” he said finally, looking at her over his glasses, “just how bloody <em>useless </em>you are.”</p><p>Mary flinched.</p><p>“Did you even try at all?”</p><p>“Yes, Father,” she said quietly.</p><p>Bolkonsky shook his head. His lip curled up in a sneer as he began to attack the page with his pen. “You’ve only gotten worse since that layabout peacock of yours moved in. Maybe I ought to try to teach him, eh?” He paused. “Where the hell does he get up to all day anyhow?”</p><p>It was anyone’s guess, really. Ever since the wedding, Mary was only vaguely aware of Anatole's presence in the occasional sound of his footsteps, the lingering scent of his cologne in the corridors, distant snatches of violin music and laughter at odd hours. She hadn’t the faintest idea where he slept, if he slept at all. She didn’t have the heart to hound him for his company, but she longed for it some days, wished he could have kept up the ruse for just a little longer.</p><p>But it couldn’t go back to how it had been before, however happy she may have been then. Not knowing what she now knew.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said.</p><p>Bolkonsky clucked in unsurprise. “No grandchildren forthcoming, I presume?”</p><p>Mary flushed, so humiliated it made her dizzy. You never did get used to the insults, not really. She would’ve almost rather gotten on with the lesson instead. “No, Father.”</p><p>Bolkonsky gave a short, barking laugh. “I thought as much.”</p><p>She turned the other cheek, just as she always had, just as Christ had taught. But it was harder now than it had ever been before.</p><p>Surely he hadn’t always been this way, Mary thought. Not this ill-tempered and cruel. Age had frayed his mind till there wasn’t much left of it. He was old and tired now, forgetful, troubled by aches and pains and the occasional night terror that woke the whole house in the wee hours. More and more these days it seemed he lived in the past. She loved him, and though she feared him a great deal more than that, she could hardly fault him his own suffering. He needed her, whether he knew it or not. And there was something to be said for being needed.</p><p>“Now then,” he said, wagging a finger at her, “let’s get on with it. And listen properly this time! I won’t be repeating myself. If we take angle theta of a right triangle, the ratio of its hypotenuse to its adjacent is referred to as…”</p><p>Bolkonsky continued to speak, but Mary didn’t hear any of it. Her mind had already spiralled off to that familiar fancy she so often lost herself in when reality became too much to bear. In her fantasy her beloved lay beside her, close enough that she could hear his breath, luxuriate in a kiss against the nape of her neck, reach over and touch his hand and feel the softness of his skin. All of it remarkably unchanged, and just as distant and out of reach as it had been before she married.</p><p>When her father had come to her with the news that Prince Vasily had asked for her hand on his son's behalf, she had had to hold herself back from tears of joy. A man had looked past her ugliness and seen her soul for what it was, and he would come and carry her away from this place, to somewhere beautiful and foreign, like Moscow or Petersburg.</p><p><em>They’re wicked to the core, the Kuragins,</em> her father had said to her. <em>Good-for-nothing Francophiles, the lot of them. I don’t like the boy and you shan’t have my blessing. But it’s up to you. I believe a girl ought to have a choice.</em></p><p>Mary hadn’t listened then, thinking that he was unkind and judgemental, that he didn’t understand her or her loneliness, that all her future and happiness lay in this. </p><p>This <em>lie</em>.</p><p>Little wonder her father thought her an idiot. Only a fool could have ever believed someone as beautiful as Anatole could have wanted someone as awkward and plain as her.</p><p>There came an enormous crash as Bolkonsky slammed his hands on the desk so hard it sent half the room rattling. Mary almost leapt out of her seat in terror.</p><p>“Are you listening at all, you stupid girl?” he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. “Shall I go down to the stables and give instruction to the horses instead? Would that be a better use of my time?”</p><p>Mary held a hand over her heart and listened to it race. Her limbs had gone wooden. She wanted to be sick, or cry, or both. He wouldn’t hit her, she knew that much by now, but the threat of it was bad enough.</p><p>“No, Father,” she whispered. She shook her head and kept on shaking it longer than most people would have. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Bolkonsky threw down his pen. He tutted a few times, looking as though he’d just tasted something foul. “All the hours I’ve wasted trying to instil some basic sense in that muddled little head of yours. I wonder why I bother sometimes.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said again.</p><p>“No,” Bolkonsky said, and it was difficult to say whether he was speaking more to himself or to her. “Forget it all. I’ve had enough of this.” He snapped his fingers in the general direction of the door, like giving an order to a dog. “Leave me, if you’re only going to make a fool out of yourself.”</p><p>Mary’s bottom lip wobbled. She lowered her face, feeling empty and cold, and horrifically ashamed, most of all. Detachedly, her hands gathered her books and papers and pushed in her chair, and her feet walked her body to her bedroom with her head low, blinking too quickly to keep herself from crying.</p><p>There wasn’t a man alive who could make her feel quite as small and stupid as her father could. She wanted to lock herself away in her room and never see his face again.</p><p>Drying her eyes, Mary sat down at her bureau to write a letter to Julie Karagina, whose brother had recently been killed in action in Turkey. Then there still several hours before dinner, when her father would expect her again. It was a rare delight, having time to herself. One she hadn’t enjoyed in a while.</p><p>She went down to the stables and took her favourite filly, a lovely chestnut Arabian, for a ride. Today the grounds were aflush with spring, and from her vantage point at the top of the hill she saw a well of green and smelled wildflowers on the breeze. She rode down the main path that led to the house, past the un-manicured gardens and the conservatory with its roof all but caved in, then the side trail into the woods. The cool air and the wind snapping past her face cleared her head, made it easier to breathe and loosened the knot of anxiety between her shoulders.</p><p><em>There you are, Marya</em>, she thought, letting herself lean forwards in the saddle. <em>It isn’t all so awful after all</em>.</p><p>Time passed her by, and the sky darkened. By the time Mary turned in, the clock above the mantelpiece read half past six, and it was time to put Nikolushka to bed. She helped him button up his pyjamas and made him brush his teeth, and as she combed his hair in the washroom mirror he chattered away about how his French lesson had gone, how many steps he counted on the east wing stairwell, and the birds he had seen from his bedroom window. At three years old, he looked so much like Andrei it almost frightened her, but the eyes were all Lise’s—a warm hazel, flecked through with green, and fringed with long thick lashes.</p><p>Mary sighed to herself as she wiped his face with a washcloth. She hadn’t known Lise very long or very well when she had died, but she had been a friend all the same, and a better friend than most. Nikolushka was too young now to understand why things were the way they were—why he would never know his mother, why his father was so often absent in every way. Mary knew all too well how that sort of loneliness felt, a familiar ache by now. She dreaded the day he began to ask those questions she didn’t know how to begin answering.</p><p>Nikolushka yawned and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.</p><p>“Have you said your prayers, <em>luchik</em>?” she asked.</p><p>“Yes, Tante.”</p><p>“Good boy.”</p><p>She tugged at his hand and motioned for them to start down the hallway. Nikolushka held out his arms instead.</p><p>“Too tired, Tante,” he whined.</p><p>Mary smiled as she lifted him into her arms and let his head loll against her shoulder. She remembered holding him this way as a newborn. He had been such a tiny thing then, all soft skin and squeaky yawns and wriggly limbs. So sweet, to have such a small helpless being depend so fully on you. She wanted one of her own so badly it hurt some days, something to love and cherish, a little life that was part <em>her</em>.</p><p>Anatole had taken that from her, but she could make herself content with loving her nephew. This, surely, was better than nothing.</p><p>On the other side of the room, there came the shuffle of footsteps and a faint knocking, and the door opened.</p><p>Otradnoe had been kind to Andrei. He had put on a little weight, and there was a healthy flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there when he had left. Still dressed in his travel things, his dark curls were ruffled from the wind.</p><p>“Andrei!” Mary gasped.</p><p>Nikolushka started. “Papa!” he shrieked. Awake at once, he squirmed out of Mary’s arms and ran to Andrei, who was already kneeling with his arms spread wide. Andrei crushed him to his chest and peppered his face with kisses.</p><p>“Papa!” Nikolushka said again.</p><p>“Hello, my little love,” Andrei said as he straightened to his feet. He gave Nikolushka an affectionate squeeze. “Have you been good for your tante?”</p><p>Nikolushka nodded eagerly, looking to Mary for confirmation.</p><p>“Good as gold,” Mary said.</p><p>Balancing Nikolushka on his hip, Andrei kissed her cheek. He smelled of wild grass and sawdust. “You’re looking well, Masha.”</p><p>“So do you, Dryusha,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”</p><p>With a soft yawn, Nikolushka buried his face in Andrei’s neck and mumbled something unintelligible.</p><p>“I think it’s time for bed, little man,” said Andrei.</p><p>“No,” Nikolushka said with an impertinent little scowl. He clutched his hands in his father’s shirt. His eyelids had begun to droop.</p><p>Mary smiled. “Papa will still be here in the morning, Kolya.”</p><p>“We’ll go riding tomorrow,” Andrei said to Nikolushka. “Won’t that be fun?”</p><p>“Promise?”</p><p>“On my life,” Andrei said solemnly.</p><p>It was clear Nikolushka was still fighting to stay awake, but he had already begun to nod off in Andrei’s arms. Mary watched from the doorway as Andrei carried him to his bed, tucked him in, and kissed his forehead. That look, and the kiss, but never <em>I love you</em>. He never did get quite that far.</p><p>Andrei closed the door slowly and softly, as if afraid of waking Nikolushka. </p><p>“I didn’t remember him being that heavy,” he murmured.</p><p>“He’s grown,” Mary said gently. “He’s growing every day.”</p><p>Andrei ran a hand through his hair and tucked his gloves into his coat pocket. Shortly before Nikolushka was born, he’d taken a blow to the head at Austerlitz, hard enough that his commanding officer had ordered him home at once. His right pupil had never gone back down to the same size after that. There were a few new wrinkles on his forehead, dark hollows around his eyes, and a patchy shadow of stubble on his cheeks. But in spite of it all he looked somehow younger, less burdened than she had seen him in years.</p><p>“It’s lovely to have you back,” she said. "We weren't expecting you home so soon."</p><p>Andrei smiled. His eyes were a little distant, just the way they always were. “Would you come with me for a minute, Masha? I'd like to have a word.”</p><p>Mary followed him to his study and stood against the wall as she waited for him to speak. Bristling all over with a nervous sort of energy, Andrei paced back and forth across the length of the room, his hands clasped together behind his back, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. It was difficult to bear these obscure silences of his, much less predict what would come of them.</p><p>“Is everything quite alright, Andrei?” she asked.</p><p>To her surprise, Andrei laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she had heard him laugh that way. Or at all. “Better than alright,” he said. His smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’ve met someone.”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“Countess Natalya Ilyinichna Rostova.”</p><p>The name only faintly rang a bell, but she could vaguely conjure to mind an image of the Rostovs from the Naryshkins’ ball so many years ago, a flock of black-haired children with large dark eyes and fine birdlike features. Countess Natalya the younger couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty by now, still little more than a slip of a girl. Hardly the sort of person she would’ve imagined might catch Andrei’s eye.</p><p>“She’s an angel, Masha,” Andrei continued. He sounded strangely bewildered, almost spellbound. “Sent to save me from myself. I don’t know what it is about her, but I feel happiness again. She’s made me <em>feel </em>again.” He laughed softly again, something so sweet and unfamiliar in his voice. “She told me she thinks we must have been angels once. That our souls were together in a past life. Isn’t that peculiar?”</p><p>Angels, she thought scornfully. The wishful musings of a child. Was this what Andrei thought of as romance now?</p><p>“Yes,” she said, in a voice that came out strange and clipped. “It is.”</p><p>Andrei stopped pacing and turned his head. Seeing the look on her face, he furrowed his brow. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>What was the matter? Mary hardly knew where to begin with that. But she remembered well enough how the matter had begun. When Lise had died, Andrei had sunk into a fit of despair and locked himself in his room for weeks on end, and every night from her room she had listened to his quiet sobbing through the walls. There had always been an unspoken air of sadness about him, but that sort of white-hot grief had to leave a mark on your soul forever. He couldn’t have moved on yet. You couldn’t, not from something like that.</p><p>“It just seems…very sudden,” she said haltingly.</p><p>“I know,” he said. “But I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life. I asked her to marry me.” He grinned, running a hand through his hair. “And she said <em>yes</em>, Masha!”</p><p>Mary was so shocked it was a good five seconds before she realized she had forgotten to breathe. Andrei stared expectantly, waiting for her to respond. </p><p>“It’s unexpected,” she said finally. “That her parents would agree to the match, I mean. She’s only young, isn’t she?”</p><p>“What does that matter?” he said. “We love each other. And she has her family’s permission.”</p><p>“Have you considered the matter of the dowry? The Rostovs aren't exactly well-off.”</p><p>“I don’t care. I’m not interested in a mercenary marriage.”</p><p>Mary said nothing, though she knew she should have. Words evaded her.</p><p>Andrei looked hurt. “I thought you would’ve been happy for me.”</p><p>Mary bit her tongue to hold it. She wasn’t entirely certain what she felt yet. But when she reached deep down inside of her for the happiness that she should have felt for Andrei, she failed to find it. What had she ever done to be deprived of a chance at love? What had <em>he </em>ever done to deserve it?</p><p>Andrei laced his fingers together behind his back and turned away from her. Mary saw his sad weary face mirrored back at him in the window. “It’s not a decision I made lightly. I do care for her deeply.” He paused and his eyes flicked back towards the nursery. “And Nikolushka needs a mother.”</p><p>Mary saw red. Her breath came short and her heart went cold and heavy. All this time, coming and going as he pleased, and only now did he want to be a father. He would take her little nephew, her godson away from her, and he had the gall to expect her to be happy about it.</p><p>“He needs his <em>father</em>, Andrei,” she said. “You can’t just pass him off to some girl who’s practically still a child herself.”</p><p>“He is my son.”</p><p>“I’ve been more a parent to him than you ever have."</p><p>“Marya,” Andrei snapped, a warning note of anger in his voice.</p><p>But Mary knew her own cowardice all too well in him. She had never feared her brother’s temper, not the way she feared her father’s. You couldn’t be afraid of a man too shy to speak back to his own reflection.</p><p>“What then?” she said flatly, and it struck her that for the first time she wanted to hurt him. “Where does it end? She’ll move into the house? Take Lise’s place? Wear her clothes, her pearls, sleep in her bed—?”</p><p>“Marya,” he began again, but Mary spoke over him.</p><p>“Will you get bored of Natasha too?”</p><p>Andrei closed his mouth and fell silent. Mary knew then that she had gone too far, and she wished she could take her words back, but his face had already hardened.</p><p>“Father’s making me enlist again,” he said finally. “I’m set to leave within the week.”</p><p>Mary stared and said nothing, not understanding, not wanting to have heard what she had.</p><p>Andrei’s voice was cold and formal when he spoke again. “He feels I must prove my dedication to Natasha before he gives his approval. He’ll consent to the marriage if I serve abroad for a year.”</p><p>“You can’t.”</p><p>“It’s not my decision.”</p><p>“But it <em>is</em>,” she said. “You can break it off and pretend it never happened. It won’t be any harm to her if you do it now. You can find someone else.”</p><p>Andrei shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “There is no one else.”</p><p>Mary’s breath failed her for the second time that day. She had never heard her brother speak about a woman like that, not even Lise. Her heart sagged heavily in her chest.</p><p>“And what of Nikolushka?” she said. “He hardly knows his father. One day he’ll be grown and you’ll have missed all of it.”</p><p>He pressed his lips into a thin line and turned away. Mary saw now what would happen if she didn’t try to make amends and <em>now</em>—he would grow cold to her again, shut himself away from the world, and she would be left even lonelier and sadder than before.</p><p>“Father’s not well, Andrei,” she said, forcing softness in her tone. It occurred to her for a moment to reach for his hand, or touch his face. “He won’t say it but he misses you when you’re gone.” Her voice cracked. “I’m frightened for him. You know he’s only getting worse. Please, if you still love me at all, don’t leave me alone with him again.”</p><p>“You’ll have your husband.”</p><p>He said the word with a sneer, as if it were some sort of insult. But Mary was too proud, too far gone to fold now.</p><p>“Yes,” she said, drawing her shoulders together. “Yes, I will.”</p><p>Fighting back tears of anger that threatened to choke her, Mary stormed out of the room and barely held herself back from slamming the door behind her. Her mind whirred in a thick fog that made her flush and sent her hands shaking at her sides. She hated Natasha without ever having laid eyes on her, and she hated Andrei for leaving her for another year, and she hated her father for being so mean and stubborn, and above all she hated herself for hating them.</p><p>It wasn’t right, none of it. One injustice after the other. She decided she would never welcome this Natasha into their home, never call her a sister or allow her to replace Lise, never show Andrei a scrap of happiness, and soon he would realize the terrible mistake he had made.</p><p>“You look upset, Marie,” came a soft lilting voice.</p><p>Mary nearly leapt out of her skin. She whipped around to the voice.</p><p>Anatole lay sprawled out across one of the settees in an indecent way, with those stupidly long legs of his splayed over the armrest. His handsome face was prettily flushed, not blotchily like hers was. There was a glass of red wine perched in his hand. He seemed happy. Happier than anyone had the right to be in the Bald Hills.</p><p>Mary felt the familiar stirrings of desire, then the smack of humiliation and shame, drowning it out, as she remembered how awful he had been. <em>The fact of the matter is that I’m not in love with you, Marie</em>. <em>See if I give a damn</em>.</p><p>Her face burned hotly. It was hardly a sin to lust after her own husband, but with a single gesture, a few curt words, he had made her feel dirty for it.</p><p>“Cat got your tongue?” he said, with a charmingly crooked grin.</p><p>Mary realized she had been staring, which she supposed was considered rude. She didn’t much care about looking rude now, least of all to him. “What’s the matter with you?” she snapped.</p><p>Anatole raised his eyebrows. “Nothing?”</p><p>“I thought you were supposed to be miserable here. You <em>told</em> me you were.”</p><p>He shrugged, so casually and confidently they might just as well have been discussing the weather. “We make the best with what we’ve got, eh?” He took a slow sip of wine. “The way I see it, you’re only unhappy if you choose to be. I find a full-bodied merlot always helps.”</p><p>He had no right, Mary thought bitterly, to lecture her on unhappiness when he was the cause of it. But in the soft corners of his smile she saw traces of the man she had thought she had fallen in love with.</p><p>Before she could make an even bigger fool out of herself, she turned on her heel and hurried back to her bedroom.</p><p>She stopped before her vanity mirror. Crying only made her look even homelier than she already did. An unattractive martyr-like expression and a set of near-sighted eyes stared back at her. Her cheeks were flushed, with flyaway hairs escaping from her braid and shadowed lines running along the sides of her face.</p><p>Mary sighed and let her shoulders fall slack. Why had she been so cold to Anatole? Had she thought it would make her feel better? That he had deserved it? For all his cruelty, she’d forgiven her father time and time again. Could this be where she faltered?</p><p>Ksenia Bolkonskaya had left behind an icon of the Theotokos. Mary had hung it over her bed as a little girl and prayed to it every night since. With delicate hands, she unhooked the icon from its hanging place and sank back against the headboard, then brought it to her lips to kiss it. The gold-leaf frame was cool to the touch. She ran her fingertips all over the paint, the shadowed face of the Virgin Mary and the infant in her arms, and murmured a prayer under her breath, asking for patience, virtue, kindness. She had never known her mother, but Ksenia’s spirit always felt closer to her this way.</p><p>Prayer and patience, she told herself. That was the answer to all her troubles. And perhaps if she suffered her burdens with enough grace, God would see fit to soften her husband’s heart.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A Sunday morning.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey pals!!! So sorry for the delay! Both of us are still super busy at the moment (this chapter was published during my lunch break and right before thewhiskerydragon's class starts) but we are still working on ALL of our fic every day! </p><p>Pls note there's nothing super explicit in this chapter, but our girl Meli does get got down on.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was all too easy, thought Amélie Bourienne, in a house as big as this one, to steal away somewhere you wouldn’t be found or heard. The room was cold, but under the bedsheets it was warm and Anatole’s skin was soft against hers.</p><p>As she invariably did every Sunday, Princess Mary had gone to church with her senile father in tow, where they would be until the late afternoon. And while the cat was away, the mice would entertain themselves as they pleased.</p><p>Anatole glowed in the late-morning sun. With the light caught in his hair, it looked as if he’d been crowned in silver. His eyes were closed. It was one of those slow lazy mornings Amélie had learned to enjoy in his company, where everything felt warm and happy and careless. The thought of drifting off here, with her head on his shoulder and the soft rise and fall of his chest and the heat of his body seeping into hers, was tempting as sin. She ran her fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, and smiled as he leaned back into her touch. </p><p>“You spoil me, <em>chérie</em>,” he said.</p><p>With the performance he had just given her, Amélie thought, he was hardly the one being spoilt. She trailed a line of kisses along his jaw. “You’ll keep going, won’t you?”</p><p>“Suppose we have some wine first?”</p><p>“No,” she said. “I’m too comfortable here.”</p><p>Anatole hummed and wrapped an arm around her waist. The bed was so much warmer with him in it.</p><p>Amélie had never had a proper romance before, only hurried dalliances conducted in coat closets and pantries with stablehands and footmen. Nothing at all like this. Anatole was a firecracker trapped in a bottle, some Paris or Apollo come to rescue her from her boredom. Now that she had known him, she wasn’t sure how she had ever lived without him.</p><p>Princess Mary hadn’t had a suitor calling on her for years until Prince Kuragin had brought his son to the Bald Hills. An unremarkable, unmemorable string of men had preceded him—ugly, ginger, tall, short, ugly again, dull-as-could-be. Mary would hang onto their every word, wide-eyed and eager and desperate, until Bolkonsky would frighten them off with his insults and mad ravings, and Amélie would silently bear witness to it all and cringe on the inside.</p><p>But the Kuragins had stayed, against all odds and sense. Easy, then, to understand why poor Mary had been so besotted. It was no crime to grow old or be born plain, Amélie knew, but one had to be realistic about one’s own marital prospects. And Anatole was <em>handsome</em>, handsomer than Mary had had any right to expect.</p><p>It was a good act he’d put on, almost believable too, but in the moments the princess wasn’t looking, Amélie had seen where it had worn thin—the false veneer of his smiles, the insincere declarations of affection, the too-smooth cadence of his voice.</p><p>The touch of his foot against hers under the dinner table as Mary looked on, infatuated and utterly oblivious.</p><p>This, now, Amélie thought, cupping his face in her hand and letting her thumb brush along his cheek, seeing the smile curl his mouth, was real enough. She would’ve been happy enough to share him with Mary, but it delighted her to no end to know that she had this all to herself.</p><p>And what a delight it was to have him.</p><p>That first night, he had stolen away to her bedroom and serenaded her on his violin until she had drawn back the covers of her bed and invited him in. Last week, they had swum naked in the river and then laid themselves out on the bank to dry in the sun with a bottle of Chablis. Then there had been their rendezvous in the gazebo in the rose garden, when the rain and thunder had muffled their voices, and all the other adventures in between.</p><p>She wanted Prince Andrei this way too once. God, she had been desperate and lonely enough to want any man at all, even one as insolent and aloof as Andrei. And he had brushed her aside with all the cold dismissal he had always shown his own little wife. <em>I don’t believe I am your husband, Mademoiselle Bourienne. I would suggest you take care to remember your place in this household, or I’ll remind you myself</em>. Amélie almost flushed in indignation at the memory.</p><p>But she wouldn’t think of it anymore. Not now, when she had Anatole in her arms.</p><p>Luxuriantly, with a greedy sort of indulgence, she let her hand drift its way down his chest, across the flat plane of his stomach. Before she got too far, he caught her wrist and brought her knuckles to his lips.</p><p>“<em>Ma chérie</em>,” he said, with amusement in his voice, “you’ve already worn me out quite thoroughly.”</p><p>“I intend to do it again.”</p><p>Anatole laughed, bright and ringing and beautiful, and leaned over to kiss her. Amélie ran a hand through his hair to the base of his neck, then lower, until she felt the sinewy muscles of his back and the curve of his spine against her palm. The thought of Mary, awkward and selfish and undeserving Mary, touching him like this incensed her.</p><p>Amélie pressed her face into his hair and breathed in the scent of his cologne and aftershave and sweat. Anatole kissed her palm and drew one of her fingers into his mouth, curling his tongue over the tip. A delicious heat spread all over Amélie’s skin that raised the hairs on the back of her neck and made her toes curl.</p><p>“She doesn’t deserve you, you know,” she said. “She wouldn’t know what to do with you.”</p><p>“Not like you, eh?”</p><p>“No,” she said. “Some days I think she’d’ve been happier as a nun.”</p><p>Anatole threw his head back against the pillows. “Sister Marya!” he crowed. “It suits her.”</p><p>“The Virgin Mary.”</p><p>He laughed harder. “She’ll be going for canonization next, eh? That’s why she spends all day at church.”</p><p>“How heartbroken was she when she learned you wouldn’t be joining her?”</p><p>Anatole’s smile took on a decidedly wicked slant. “You’d’ve thought I’d told her I’d decided to run off and dance naked with the Devil.”</p><p>A ridiculous girlish laugh bubbled out of her, but there was no surprise in it—she had known Mary too long to expect anything else. Amélie had always been a stranger in this miserable country with its foreign traditions, cold and somber and constantly buried in five feet of snow. Russia was no place for a good and loyal Frenchwoman. She said her prayers in private and tolerated Mary’s attempts to convert her with a bitten tongue. But she felt herself around Anatole, for the first time in years.</p><p>“She used to beg and plead for me to come with her,” Amélie said. “She’s very concerned for my immortal soul, you see.”</p><p>“And you’ve no such compunctions?”</p><p>She smiled tightly. “My soul is perfectly well tended-to. She holds to the opinion that Catholics don’t go to heaven.”</p><p>“Pity,” he said. “Well, I suppose if we’re both destined for fire and brimstone, we might as well have our fun while we can, eh?”</p><p>Amélie allowed herself a laugh. That was how life was to be lived, she thought. For the moment, not for the thought of whatever came after that.</p><p>“It’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it?” he went on. “Everything they tell us about sin and temptation. I say to hell with all of it. We have fun together, don’t we?”</p><p>“Of course we do.”</p><p>“Then there can’t be anything wrong in it. It’d be a greater sin to resign yourself to someone you don’t love. And that’s why there’s not a person alive who’s married who isn’t entirely miserable with it.”</p><p>Amélie hummed, not quite listening now, and absently put her lips to his throat. She could feel the vibrations of his voice as he spoke.</p><p>“My sister should be in the prime of her life, but she has to play nursemaid to a drunken buffoon. And here I am tied down to that awkward shrew. I’d never have gotten married if I’d had a choice in the matter. I don’t believe anyone should marry at all. I’m opposed to the institution, myself. You trade away all your freedom for a house and a bit of money—where’s the fairness in that? If you ask me, all it’s no better than whoring yourself out.”</p><p>“Is that how dear Marie understood it?”</p><p>Anatole clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She certainly tried to collect.”</p><p>Amélie took his jaw in her hand, a little too tight, just as he liked it. Now she had his attention again. “Don’t you know it’s poor form not to deliver what was paid for?” she scolded.</p><p>“I said my lines, didn’t I?”</p><p>She let her lips brush his ear. “If I were her,” she murmured, “do you know what I’d do?”</p><p>Anatole grabbed at her hips in anticipation. They had indulged in this playful routine perhaps a dozen or so times by now, but it still hadn’t lost its novelty. “Tell me, my darling, please.”</p><p>Amélie tilted her head, running her fingers along his chest. “You don’t want me to <em>show</em> you?”</p><p>Anatole grinned, something unexpectedly feral, and tugged her closer. Their lips had just barely met when a pair of heavy footsteps creaked past the doorway. They dove back under the sheets, stifling laughter like children, too giddy and thoughtless to be properly afraid of being caught.</p><p>God save their souls if they were caught.</p><p>The footsteps passed. Then, quiet again. Guilt, heavy and cold, turned over in Amélie’s stomach for a moment. There was a reason God had forbidden adultery. It would hurt Mary terribly, Amélie knew, if she ever found out. The morning after the wedding, the poor little princess had come running to her in tears, her face all red and blotchy, crying, <em>Meli, he didn’t want me, he doesn’t love me, it was all a lie, what am I supposed to do?</em> Amélie, hardly believing it then, had brushed her tears away and told her surely he had had too much to drink, or there had been a misunderstanding, or perhaps he would come around eventually, and now that he hadn’t, Mary had only sunk lower and lower in her own misery. How devastated she would be to know. It would kill her, Amélie thought. She couldn’t ever know, for her own good as well as theirs.</p><p>But then she felt Anatole’s lips brush against her throat, and all thoughts of Mary evaporated into thin air. That mouth of his, she thought. <em>Nom de Dieu</em>. He kissed his way down her chest and stomach, his fingers lightly stroking her sides, drawing out little sounds of delight from her. She knew where this went, but the thrill of it was still fresh as it had been the first time.</p><p>Amélie let a sigh escape her as she felt his breath against her inner thigh. This was her favorite part of it all. She reached down to gather a fistful of silver hair and guided him to where she liked it best and let him have at it.</p><p><em>Dieu soit loué</em>, thought Amélie, from some distant heavenly place. If there was any sin in this at all, it was that she had ever once been deprived of this pleasure. Mary hadn’t the faintest idea what she was missing. You could have passed a thousand lifetimes without meeting a man like this. God only knew she almost had. The guilt slithered up again, into her throat, but she swallowed it down. For how long she had suffered the Bolkonskys, she deserved this.</p><p>It wasn’t as if Mary would have him anyhow.</p><p>Anatole did something particularly wicked with his tongue, and Amélie whimpered, a high-pitched and utterly undignified sound. Anatole laughed softly as he slunk back up to kiss her. She could taste where he’d been. Amélie felt herself melt a little inside.</p><p>“Christ, Anatole,” she breathed, in between kisses. “Where have you been all this time?”</p><p>“You’re good for my ego, you know.”</p><p>Amélie tugged him down and let him lay his head on her breast. She stroked his hair while he tried in vain to catch her fingers. “You’ve no idea how miserable I was without you.”</p><p>Anatole frowned, looking sad himself, and it struck her through that he seemed to care. No one had ever cared about her this way before. She imagined it would be all too easy to fall in love. Difficult not to, with a face like that.</p><p>“My poor darling,” he sighed.</p><p>“I’ve been so lonely,” she said. “This is all I’ve ever known. I’ve no money, no relations, nothing. There’s nowhere for me to go. I’ll be trapped here for the rest of my life with <em>them</em>. I’ll go mad.” She felt tears burning in her eyes. “And that horrible old prince—he asked me to marry him, if you’d believe it! I’m lucky if I can get through dinner without him sneaking a look down my dress. And <em>she’s</em> never bothered to do anything about it. She’s too afraid of him to say anything. She just sits there and lets it happen.”</p><p>“I should duel him for you.”</p><p>Amélie felt something in her chest flutter. “You’d kill for me?”</p><p>“I’d die for you.”</p><p>Amélie looked down at him, into those big beautiful eyes of his. In that moment, she felt that he understood her better than anyone else ever had.</p><p>“You and I aren’t made for those people,” she said. “We’re a different breed.”</p><p>“We are,” he said.</p><p>“And that’s why we’re so miserable here.”</p><p>“We should run off together, the two of us,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be a grand little adventure?”</p><p>What an adventure indeed, Amélie thought. Her aunt had told her a story all throughout her childhood, before she was sent into the employment of the Bolkonskys, of a young woman who had given herself to a man out of wedlock and ruined herself. Amélie had often retold it to herself with a different ending she liked better, one where the lovers were married and moved into the country with their child. And now he was here, her handsome prince, all hers for the taking, and he would carry her away from this miserable place, off to blissful happiness.</p><p>Amélie had no intention of spending the rest of her days in the Bald Hills, humoring old Prince Bolkonsky, reading aloud to him and forcing herself to laugh at his vile jokes, being Mary’s friend and listening to her moan and cry about everything and nothing all at once. There was more to life than that. There were men like Anatole, and there were cities like Petersburg and Paris, and there was fine wine and pearls and silk to enjoy, and all of it could be hers if only she went after it.</p><p>“Yes,” she said. “We’ll run off to France.”</p><p>Anatole smiled and ran his lips along her palm. “I quite enjoyed Paris when I was a boy.”</p><p>“We’ll get ourselves a nice little flat on the Seine. And we’ll never think of this place ever again.”</p><p>“Whatever makes you happiest.”</p><p>Amélie stared at the ceiling, wonderstruck. Whatever made her happiest. The more she thought of it, the more the whole idea seemed beautiful and real. She didn’t know how or when it would happen, only that she was certain it would. Giddy, flushed, and madly excited, she toppled them over till he was on his back instead of her and swung a leg over his hip to straddle his waist. She took his hands between hers.</p><p>“Promise me,” she said. “Promise we’ll be together.”</p><p>“I swear it.”</p><p>“Say it’ll be in France. Promise me that too.”</p><p>“Anything you ask for and more, my darling.”</p><p>Amélie’s heart beat heavier and faster. “Tell me you adore me. That you would die for me.”</p><p>“I love you,” he said. “Only you. I’d go to the ends of the Earth for you.”</p><p>When Amélie lunged after him again, their teeth knocked together, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was young and happy and in love, and nothing else mattered.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A visitor arrives at the Bald Hills.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tragically, this is not charming, lovely Manik Choksi Fedya as we typically write, but rather nasty, feral Tom Burke Dolokhov. The authors acknowledge that every man in this chapter sucks the big one and should feel very bad about themselves.</p><p>Please note that there is a Lot of misogyny in this chapter, as well as a passing reference to domestic abuse. </p><p>Also! We updated our vampire fic 'Creatures of the Night' recently! Give her a read!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fedya Dolokhov was not entirely pleased with the prospect of being stranded in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. Once you’d seen Moscow, anything else seemed dull in comparison. For the past few months he had been staying with Pierre Bezukhov, where he had kept Hélène company. With a husband like hers, it was less a sin and more an act of Christian charity.</p><p>Now that he’d gotten himself run out of the house, the invitation from Anatole had seemed like an excellent way to save a few roubles’ worth of rent. There was still goodness left in this world, and enough rich idiots to dole it out.</p><p>It was a day’s carriage ride to the address Anatole had given him. Out in the countryside it was quiet and sleepy, endless fields of wheat dotted here and there with serf villages and the faint lines of church steeples on the horizon. Fedya tried to catch a few moments of rest, but whenever he shifted in his seat, a twinge of fire burned through his shoulder, and he bit down on his tongue and took another swig from his hip flask.</p><p>The doctor had said a bit of country air would do him some good. Perhaps it was better this way, Fedya thought, or had tried to tell himself. After everything that had happened, the thought of turning to his darling angel mother in this state—bleeding, bandaged, humiliated—almost shamed him to tears. </p><p>By the time he arrived, the vodka had left his shoulder numb and his chest burning with that familiar warmth. Anatole was waiting for him at the top of the steps, just as tall and lean and narrow as he had been the last time Fedya saw him in Petersburg, with those wide eyes and that same beautiful smile he knew so well in Hélène. Domesticity hadn’t changed him a bit. Little would have, Fedya thought. Anatole would have been just as content running off to join the Ruska Roma as in the Kuragins’ usual box at the opera.</p><p>“Fedya, my good fellow!” Anatole said, rushing over to him. “How the devil are you?”</p><p>Fedya grinned and threw his good arm around Anatole's shoulders. “Breathing, Tolya. And that’s all that matters, eh?”</p><p>Anatole laughed. “Too right you are! Come now, you’re late for dinner and you’ve kept us starving.”</p><p>He brought Fedya to the salon, a high-ceilinged room with sombre paintings of past Bolkonskys glowering at them from the walls. In the middle of it all stood Princess Marya Nikolaevna, dressed in a shapeless navy dress with her hair braided up and a heavy silver crucifix around her neck like a chain.</p><p><em>She’s dull as hell, Fedya</em>, Anatole’s letters had said.<em> Devilishly ugly. I might die of misery</em>. Looking at the little princess now, Fedya saw an unremarkable face, unfortunately paired with lank brown hair and a curveless figure. When he bent to kiss her hand, she stared at him blankly, a bewildered dozy expression he might have recognized in a deer through the sights of his rifle, as if she’d never seen a man before in her life.</p><p>“Princess Kuragina,” he said, and it struck him how ridiculous it felt to pair that surname with a face like hers. It suited her almost as poorly as ‘Bezukhova’ did Hélène. “Captain Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”</p><p>Mary’s voice was just a hair above a whisper. “Likewise, Captain,” she said. Her French was only slightly more passable than Fedya’s, a noticeable Russian accent blunting the edges of her words.</p><p>“You’re just as lovely as Anatole described.”</p><p>Mary blushed scarlet. She looked nervously to Anatole, the barest trace of hope in her eyes. Anatole smiled back at her. It was a handsome smile, and if Fedya hadn’t known Anatole quite as well as he did, he might have even thought it was real.</p><p>Dinner was roasted pheasant and potatoes served with a tureen of borscht. Nothing to turn your nose up at, but hardly the sort of fare Hélène would have ever allowed on the Bezukhovs’ table. Prince Bolkonsky, a small stern-looking man edging into his sixties by the look of it, sat at the head of the table wearing a powdered wig and a nightshirt. An attractive blonde woman was cutting up his meat for him, like a governess might. Fedya looked her up and down appreciatively, without any kind of subtlety. So, they were not entirely deprived of their creature comforts in the country.</p><p>Anatole’s silvery hair caught every bit of light in the room. Beside him, the princess slouched in her seat, looking as thin and grey and stern as her father. Anatole hardly seemed to pay her any mind, as if the chair beside him was empty. This was a habit of his, Fedya had learned, ignoring women he didn’t want to sleep with, or at least pretending they didn’t exist. But Mary seemed all too aware of his presence, flushed and nervous, stealing little worried glances every now and then and averting her eyes if he caught her. Whenever their shoulders touched, or their hands came within a hair of each other, she flinched back as if he’d struck her.</p><p>Fedya wondered absently if Anatole had ever bothered to discipline his wife, then doubted it. Anatole wasn’t the sort to strike out in anger. Not like him. Not like Pierre, who it seemed had gotten into the habit of throwing tables at people to settle marital disputes. He must have strung her along instead, luring her with promises of affection and adoration before casting her aside. And still the pathetic thing was making eyes at him like a bitch in heat. It was pitiful to the point of cruelty.</p><p>Newlywed bliss, Fedya thought, and almost laughed. He had seen this before, knew well enough how it went. Perhaps Hélène had taught her brother a trick or two.</p><p>“Amélie,” Bolkonsky said in Russian, apparently to the blonde woman, “fetch me my spectacles.”</p><p>“They’re on your head, my prince,” said Amélie in a lilting, accented voice.</p><p>“Ah.” He reached up for them. “So they are.”</p><p>Princess Mary looked timidly at Fedya’s seat, then at her father. The resemblance was striking, now that he looked at them properly, though where the lines of Bolkonsky’s face had hardened, hers seemed to have withered.</p><p>“Is…isn’t Andrei coming to dinner?” she asked.</p><p>“Your brother,” Bolkonsky said, with evident displeasure, “is off surveying his estates. Probably sniffing around the Rostova girl while he’s out too.”</p><p>Natasha Rostova, Fedya surmised. Andrei Bolkonsky’s newest fiancée. The one with no tits. Irritating, nosy little slip of a girl. More than once during his stay at Otradnoe he’d caught her eyeing him with suspicion, or whispering to her cousin about him in the corner of the room when she thought he couldn’t hear.</p><p>“It’s a shame,” said Fedya. “I heard the Rostovs have fallen on hard times.”</p><p>“Yes, yes,” grumbled the old prince. “The father’s a spendthrift at the best of times. Awful business, staking your family’s well-being on a man with such little sense.” He leaned back in his seat and adjusted his spectacles, staring at Fedya. “Who is this, again?”</p><p>Mary leaned in closer to him and whispered, “He’s a guest, Father. I told you last week he was coming to visit.”</p><p>Fedya reached across the table and shook Bolkonsky’s hand. “Captain Fyodor Dolokhov, of the Hussar Regiment, sir.”</p><p>At the word <em>Captain</em>, Bolkonsky clapped Fedya on the back with surprising strength. Fedya’s shoulder smarted in protest. “Very good! Captain Dolokhov, yes, a military man. <em>This </em>is what all Russian men were like in my day! None of that French horseshit!”</p><p>Anatole scowled.</p><p>“Father,” Princess Mary began.</p><p>“And not another word out of you, if you can’t say anything sensible! I’m going to enjoy an intelligent conversation for once at this table.”</p><p>Mary shrank back in her seat.</p><p>“Now, tell me, my boy,” he said, returning to Fedya, “how are things out on the front?”</p><p>Fedya couldn’t bring himself to feign a smile. It had been clear from the outset of the Battle of Austerlitz that Russia was utterly unprepared for war with the French. But the Tsar had covered his eyes and ears and pretended that Napoleon’s retreat was all but certain. It took a certain breed of idiot, Fedya thought, to throw a lavish banquet celebrating your own defeat, like that old fool Ilya Rostov had, but perhaps with enough wine in you anything could look like a victory.</p><p>“The frogs have been pushing east,” he said grimly. “Kutuzov is worried.”</p><p>Bolkonsky nodded. “Only right to be sent home victorious, injured, or in a casket,” he said, nodding at Fedya’s sling. He gestured to Anatole. “Not like this useless fop!”</p><p>The bit of lead still buried in the muscle of Fedya’s shoulder burned again, heat so intense it felt like ice. He remembered flashes here and there—the bitter smell of ash and sulphur, the curl of smoke, falling, his blood wetting the snow—and hated Pierre for it all over again. A lucky shot. No skill in it at all. There was nothing proud about screwing your eyes shut and praying to God before firing. He had cried for his mother, he remembered, like a frightened little boy, cradling his shoulder and gasping for breath between sobs, and Pierre had come running for him in tears, shouting that he hadn’t meant to hurt him, that he hadn’t wanted to, that he would fetch the doctor right away.</p><p>But like hell would he ever let anyone hear that, least of all Anatole.</p><p>Anatole burst out laughing. Fedya passingly wondered if he had guessed what he was thinking. You never really could tell, not with Anatole. “You don’t seriously believe Dolokhov was wounded on the front?”</p><p>Bolkonsky furrowed his brow. “What’s this?”</p><p>“Oh, I’ve already heard all about it!” Anatole said, turning back to Fedya. “Lena wrote to tell me about the stir you’ve kicked up in Moscow. It was quite a laugh, really.”</p><p>Beneath the table, Fedya’s hands tightened into fists. Of course it would come back to this, and Hélène would spin the narrative into something that suited her better, and Anatole would trot it out for his own entertainment. Gossip found its way everywhere in Russia, even dull little corners like the Bald Hills. And between the Kuragin siblings there were no secrets. He should have known that by now.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” he said.</p><p>“Oh?” Anatole said, steepling his hands under his chin. “Tell me about this <em>nothing</em>.”</p><p>What was the point of it, Fedya thought. It couldn’t hurt him more than it already had. Whatever Hélène had told her brother, she wasn’t here to defend her own words.</p><p>“I got myself into a bit of trouble with your brother-in-law at Rostov’s little get-together,” he said. “He seems to think I’ve become involved with your sister.”</p><p>Anatole howled with laughter. “And God knows you would <em>never.</em>”</p><p>“I’m a gentleman, aren’t I?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“‘Trouble’?” said Amélie.</p><p>Anatole leaned back in his seat with a self-satisfied look on his face. “Dear Fedya had a duel with Pierre Bezukhov. Isn’t that right?”</p><p>The table went very quiet. Princess Mary’s face darkened. Fedya was reminded for a scant moment of Marya Dmitrievna, that old cow who sat in the front pew in church and tutted at people as they walked past.</p><p>“A woman, you said?” asked Bolkonsky.</p><p>“His sister,” Amélie said.</p><p>“Ah, the Kuragin girl,” Bolkonsky said. He traced generous curves in the air. “Gorgeous thing.”</p><p>Anatole’s hand twitched angrily around his fork. Mary looked like she wanted to burst into tears, or make a run for the nearest basin, or both.</p><p>But Fedya only laughed. He deserved it, for all that had happened. “The very same.”</p><p>“Damned honourable to duel with matters like that,” Bolkonsky said. “It toughens the character.”</p><p>“Too right you are, sir.”</p><p>“<em>I</em> think it’s terribly romantic,” Amélie sighed. “I know I’d be flattered to have a duel fought for my honour.”</p><p>Bolkonsky chuckled and patted her hand. “And I’m sure many a man would fight it, my dear.”</p><p>“It’s barbaric,” said Princess Mary. “Wanton murder.”</p><p>Bolkonsky gave another short laugh, this one almost a croak, that reminded Fedya vaguely of the sound a man made after being bayoneted through the ribs. “Of course you’d think that way! Feeble-minded little women…”</p><p>“Bezukhov couldn’t hold a pistol to save his life,” said Anatole. “I’ll bet it only grazed you.”</p><p>It was petty and low and goading, but so was Anatole, and Fedya’s pride, already wounded, had been threatened. With his jacket undone, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the collar open. The skin was on its way to healing, but a raised ridge of scar already crossed his shoulder. They all turned to stare at him, transfixed, half in horror and half in fascination. Bolkonsky struggled to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“Had to leave the bullet in,” said Fedya. “Does that look like a ‘graze’ to you?”</p><p>“My God,” Anatole said. “The old man’s aim is better than we thought.”</p><p>“No aim in it. Shoot a gun enough times and you’ll hit something eventually.”</p><p>Amélie seemed torn between delight and horror. “How terrible!”</p><p>Fedya buttoned his shirt, but not all the way. He sat back in his seat. “Lena’s been in a bit of a mood lately, as you can imagine.”</p><p><em>A bit of a mood</em> was putting it lightly, and Anatole knew well enough how his sister got when her glittering reputation was threatened. Afterwards, when she’d heard what had happened, while the dust still had yet to settle and the gauze on Fedya’s shoulder still needed changing every few hours, she had had the footman gather his things in a carpetbag and throw it out the front door into the snow.</p><p>“And so you’ve come to me with your tail between your legs,” said Anatole.</p><p>“And so I’ve come to you as an old friend,” Fedya corrected.</p><p>Anatole smiled, the way he might have before asking Pierre to loan him fifty roubles he never intended to repay. “I’m touched, Fyedka, really.”</p><p>“I can count on you, at least. And thank God for that. It’s a sorry state the world’s come to. Defend a woman’s honour and she won’t even look at you. Where’s the gratitude?”</p><p>Princess Mary looked at him from across the table, her eyes dark and frightful, and said very coldly and seriously, “Perhaps she’s reserved it for her husband.”</p><p>Fedya was almost startled into laughter. So, the little mouse had a tongue after all. He waited for Bolkonsky to snap back at her, call her some cruel name or poke fun at her again, but the old prince had fallen asleep, his chin against his chest. The sound of his snoring filled the room. Mary sighed. She’d seen this before, Fedya could tell. He’d seen that same look of exhaustion in his own mother after long days of caring for his sister.</p><p>The conversation was dead, and that had been its final blow. Out of all of them, only Anatole seemed content letting the silence linger.</p><p>After dinner, Anatole found a bottle of wine and led Fedya down a tall hallway into the east wing of the house, where the windows were drawn and the cold darkness of it all gave the vague impression of a graveyard.</p><p>Amélie tried following them to the door. Anatole laughed, catching her gently around the waist, kissed her hand, and sweetly murmured something in French. It was anyone’s guess what he said, whether it was <em>not tonight, darling, I’ll be screwing him instead</em> or <em>why don’t the three of us have a go at it</em>—there was little Fedya would have put past him—but it must have offended her somehow, because she promptly slapped him across the face and stormed off in a huff.</p><p>“French temper,” Anatole said, rubbing his jaw ruefully.</p><p>“It’s not anything you don’t enjoy,” said Fedya.</p><p>Anatole grinned. “You know me too well, <em>mon cher</em>.”</p><p>Fedya climbed onto the bed and laid his aching body back against the headboard. In Petersburg, Anatole had lived in an enormous white-marble room with a balcony overlooking the garden. His quarters here were smaller, with velvet wall-hangings and a polished chestnut desk and not much else. It was hardly squalor, Fedya thought, but by Anatole’s standards, it might just as well have been a Siberian prison.</p><p>Anatole uncorked the bottle. “The old man’s fond of you already.” He looked up at Fedya through his eyelashes. “I’ll bet he wished his daughter had married a man like you instead, eh?”</p><p>“Charming woman, your wife.”</p><p>Anatole’s smile became a grimace. He took a generous swig from the bottle, looking clearly as if he thought he deserved every last drop of it. “Don’t remind me.”</p><p>“I’m quite hurt I wasn’t invited to the wedding, you know.”</p><p>“You know how it is. What with the matter of your being…what was the term my father used again?”</p><p>“‘Illiterate brutish troglodytic macrocephalic baboon’, I believe.”</p><p>“Ah yes,” said Anatole. “He missed his calling as a poet, honestly.”</p><p>Fedya was certain Vasily Kuragin would have had some more choice words for him if they saw what they were doing now. For a man who had all but sold his own children, he didn’t have much room to judge.</p><p>“Couldn’t avoid it forever, eh?”</p><p>Anatole took in the room as if only seeing it for the first time. “Well, it’s not so terrible after all. I like to think I’ve done quite well for myself here.”</p><p>Fedya drummed his fingers against his thigh. He almost envied it, that ability of Anatole’s to simply decide on being happy, wherever he found himself. He longed for such uncomplicated contentment, even now, after all but giving up on that hope completely.</p><p>It wasn’t love, what he had felt for Sonya. Certainly nothing close to affection either—there were women you fucked and women you married, and if you had any sense, you kept the two apart. But there had been a feeling of rightness in it all the same. It was what was done. Find a nice girl from a respectable family, settle down, have a few screaming infants, and try not to drink yourself to death or get shot in the meantime.</p><p>Sonya hadn’t been rich when Fedya had proposed to her, but she was quiet and well-mannered, with an oddly attractive air of innocence about her. That was the sort of woman you made into a wife. Not like Hélène, who swore like a sailor and danced in taverns and kept and tossed her lovers aside whenever it pleased her. The thought of it all had seemed so simple and easy. It was the most a poor orphan like Sonya could have hoped for, really.</p><p>It was rare he got as angry as he had when she refused him. Anger made him cruel, and cruelty made him calculating. But if the little bitch hadn’t wanted him, that was fine. By the time he’d gotten through with Nikolai, well, it was little wonder Natasha had been so quick and desperate to throw herself at a rich groom.</p><p>Anatole crawled onto the mattress after Fedya, lay on his back, and let his knees fall apart, looking for all the world as if he had just returned from a night out at the English Club. Fedya missed those wild nights, staggering down the street pissed in the early hours of morning, laughing and shouting an old drinking song at the top of their lungs and leaning against each other for balance the whole way home.</p><p>“How have you been getting along?” Anatole asked.</p><p>Fedya pulled a stray thread off the cuff of his sleeve. “Well enough. The cards have been kind.”</p><p>“They’re always kind to you, Fyedka.”</p><p>In a way, Fedya supposed, they were. He’d done quite nicely for himself on the Rostovs’ fortune so far. The money would run out eventually, as it always did, but it had a way of finding him again when he needed it. And when there were men as stupid and generous as Pierre and Anatole, you’d have to be an idiot to live on scraps. Fedya had sense enough to enjoy things while they lasted.</p><p>The French were pressing closer each day, carving their way through Austria and Poland. There were rumours they’d reach the Russian border within the year, and he was inclined to believe them. It was fine enough by Fedya. In peacetime, he grew restless and stagnant. He had missed the battlefield, and he had hardly even realized it.</p><p>“I expect I’ll be called out to deployment again soon,” he said. </p><p>Anatole gave the barest hint of raising an eyebrow. He drew one perfect fingernail along the label of the bottle. “With your shoulder in that state?”</p><p>“It’ll heal.”</p><p>Anatole pouted. “And what ever am I to do while you’re away?”</p><p>“Believe it or not, that wasn’t a concern of mine.”</p><p>Anatole caught his reflection in the bottle and smiled. “I think I’d suit a uniform. You’d like me in that, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>“Imperial green isn’t your colour.”</p><p>Anatole sniffed haughtily. “Everything’s my colour.”</p><p>“They’d eat you alive, you know.”</p><p>“I was under the impression the French took kindly to the aristocracy.”</p><p>“Not the French,” he said. “You’d have to worry about your comrades first. An open mouth often catches a closed fist, you know.”</p><p>Anatole laughed. He would, thought Fedya. Anatole thought the whole world was a joke waiting to be told, that his life was an amusement someone else had taken upon themselves to arrange for him, that things like bullets and bayonets only existed in anecdotes and old war stories. It would’ve been easy to despise him for it, if only he hadn’t been so damn entertaining as well.</p><p>“You get a hero’s funeral, at least,” said Fedya. “And a nice word or two in the elegy. They’re not allowed to speak poorly of you once you’re dead. It’s more than you can say of the living.”</p><p>Anatole made a vaguely dismissive gesture with his hand, something flippant he might have copied from the opera. “They can throw my body in the Neva, for all I care.”</p><p>“It’s a very nice body,” Fedya said, eyeing Anatole appreciatively. “It would be a shame to throw it in the river.”</p><p>Anatole inched closer and slung his leg over Fedya’s hip. He took Fedya’s hand and placed it on his thigh. “You’re missing the chance to see more of it, you know.”</p><p>Fedya took a quick look at the door. It was generally considered good practice not to carry out this sort of business where a wife might intrude. Anatole must have caught on to his train of thought, because he waved a hand in the vague direction of the corridor and said, “She won’t be bothering us tonight.”</p><p>Fedya crooked an eyebrow. “Won’t she?”</p><p>“No,” he said. “I made sure to sort that out early on. Merlot?”</p><p>He showed Fedya the bottle, and without waiting for a response, pushed it into his hands. Fedya took a long sip, closing his eyes.</p><p>“It’s a lovely vintage,” Anatole said. “1804, I believe. Absolutely gorgeous finish, don’t you think?”</p><p>“It tastes like wine.”</p><p>Anatole rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle. He rolled onto his back and put his ankles up on the footboard. “No taste at all, I swear. Have your vodka, then. It would be a crime to waste this on you.”</p><p>“I see married life hasn’t improved upon your manners at all.”</p><p>“If you were in my situation, Fedya, my dear friend, I trust you’d feel the same.”</p><p>“Is she quite so chilly in the sack, then?”</p><p>Anatole pulled a face. “I doubt it.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>Anatole wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You know I’ve never been opposed to ravishment, but this was just <em>embarrassing</em>. She was begging for it.” He reached over to squeeze Fedya’s crotch. Fedya laughed coarsely and caught Anatole by the wrist. “Just like that. I told her to sod off, of course. Then the little mouse threatened to involve the Church if I wouldn’t fuck her. Christ above, you think she’d have some dignity in her old age.”</p><p>There was no doubt in Fedya’s mind that Anatole was lying, but the lies were half the fun with Anatole. He smiled, leaning back in his seat. “They say the religious ones are the most willing to…<em>experiment</em>.”</p><p>“God help me.” </p><p>Fedya smiled. For a man like Anatole, who must have worked his way through every socialite’s bed in Petersburg by now, he hadn’t expected him to turn down an easy lay. </p><p>“She might not look so bad after a few shots, you know, Tolenka.”</p><p>“You can sleep with her, then.”</p><p>“We both know you’ve done worse.”</p><p>“The difference is I’m chained down to this one.”</p><p>“Semantics.”</p><p>“And suppose I get her pregnant?”</p><p>“Suppose you do.”</p><p>Anatole let his head hang back with a look of disgust. “She’d be thrilled, I’m sure. It was all she talked about before the wedding. She wants four at least. One to name after each of our parents. It’s the most horrendous thing. I won’t talk of it anymore, Fedya, I might be sick.”</p><p>“I think Mama and Papa will be flattered to know you’ve thought of them.”</p><p>“Of course,” said Anatole disdainfully. He propped himself up on his elbows. “They’re old-fashioned that way.”</p><p>“Most people are in this country.”</p><p>Anatole glowered at him.</p><p>“It might not be such a bad idea, you know, Tolya,” Fedya said. He leaned over to nip Anatole’s collarbone. “Just to get it over with. Give her a baby and she’ll never bother you again. That’s how women are.”</p><p>“I can’t be bothered for it. And why should I?”</p><p>“She won’t stay patient forever. You push your luck too far, comrade, and see what it gets you.”</p><p>“I won’t hear it. I don’t want to think about it.”</p><p>Fedya ran a hand down Anatole’s side. “I wonder what she would think to know she’s married an adulterer.”</p><p>Anatole shot upright. The bottle would’ve gone tumbling to the floor if he hadn’t caught it in time. “It’s not adultery,” he said, a little too sharply for it to be convincing. “We’re not <em>really </em>married.”</p><p>“Pierre seemed to think differently.”</p><p>“That’s not the same.”</p><p>“Isn’t it?”</p><p>Anatole seemed to consider this, looking contemplative for a moment, then just as quickly set the thought aside. Fedya should have known better than to expect anything else. Stubborn, small-minded Anatole had always preferred his own conclusions to unkind logic and truth. It would get him killed one day, Fedya thought, but it wasn’t as if he would learn his lesson any other way in the meantime.</p><p>“Lena’s mistake was letting Pierre think she still cared for him,” Anatole said finally. “I haven’t, you see.”</p><p>“Right,” Fedya said drily.</p><p>“So I’ll just improve upon her mistakes. Keep the property and travel a little. No one ever said I had to live with my wife for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll end up in Paris and drown in champagne. Or the corps of the Imperial Ballet.”</p><p>Anatole, with the libido of a rabbit and the attention span of a goldfish and all the willpower of a starving dog faced with a plate of prime steak, couldn’t resist any woman throwing herself at him. Not even his wife. He was prone to stupid decisions at the best of times. With the way he drank, Fedya wouldn’t have been surprised if he woke up in bed with her before the month was out.</p><p>“And you know, it’s really not as terrible as I expected. The family’s a nightmare, of course, but I’ve been making do on my own so far.”</p><p>Not exactly on his own, Fedya thought, remembering Amélie. “You seem to have found some entertainment.”</p><p>Anatole sighed and put a hand over his heart, with that ridiculous starry-eyed expression Fedya had seen him wear over the thousand other pretty girls before Amélie. “<em>Mon Dieu</em>. Absolutely stunning, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I didn’t know they had girls like that out in the country.”</p><p>“I think she’s even better for it. I can’t bear socialites, you know that.”</p><p>Fedya scoffed. “You managed them well enough back home.”</p><p>“Never again,” he said. “Not after this one. What a goddess. Absolute dynamite in the sack. The <em>tits</em> on her, Fedya, Jesus Christ—” </p><p>“You know,” said Fedya, “she reminds me a little of our Lena.”</p><p>Anatole made an incredibly undignified choking sound and flushed bright red. The colour of it clashed marvellously with his hair. It was a joy to wind him up, Fedya thought, and even more fun to watch him run. “Don’t be ridiculous!”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Fedya said, a teasing lilt to his voice. “They’re about the same height. Similar eyes. And I’m very familiar with those tits, of course.”</p><p>“You take that back, Dolokhov, or I <em>swear</em>—”</p><p>“And if it’s down to tits there’s no besting your sister, of course,” he went on. “But between the two of you, you have the better arse.”</p><p>Anatole’s face lit up in delight, short-lived as every other emotion that passed through that empty little head of his. “Really?”</p><p>Fedya threw his head back and laughed. He really hadn’t changed a bit, the vain twit. “It’s a shame you’re both so determined to leave me cold on that front.”</p><p>“Lena was right about you,” said Anatole, remembering that he was meant to be angry. “You’re an animal.”</p><p>“You’ll find I still fuck like one too.”</p><p>Anatole tried not to laugh. Fedya pushed himself upright. He was slightly tipsy, and very deprived, which made him demanding. He grabbed Anatole roughly by the hips, and pulled him backwards onto his lap. Anatole yelped as Fedya crushed him to his chest, hard, with arms like iron, and pushed his face into Anatole’s neck.</p><p>“Come now, Tolya, don’t be so cold.”</p><p>Anatole slapped his hand away. “I’ve told you not to bring Lena into this.”</p><p>Fedya’s hands found Anatole’s wrists. Even with the bullet burning in his shoulder, he was stronger than Anatole, a fact that they were both well aware of. Anatole struggled, but like a man who didn’t want to win the fight, just for the show of it.</p><p>“Forget Lena, then,” said Fedya. He lowered his voice to a growl, let his mouth brush against the side of Anatole’s throat. “What if I tied you to the bed instead?”</p><p>Anatole flushed. “Don’t you be such a tease.”</p><p>“And won’t that be a charming little surprise for your wife?”</p><p>Anatole startled, but there was no act in it this time. “You wouldn’t dare!”</p><p>Fedya squeezed a little tighter. There was something terribly satisfying in this, putting the selfish, spoilt prince in his rightful place. Seeing him helpless. “Are you a betting man, Tolya?”</p><p>“What, do you want to give her a heart attack?”</p><p>“You’d love nothing more than that, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>Fedya reached a hand down to unbuckle his belt. Anatole whipped around to glare at him, his eyes blazing. “I’ll have you whipped, you son of a bitch!”</p><p>Fedya laughed. “You’ve got it the wrong way ‘round, comrade.”</p><p>Anatole kept twisting and swearing under his breath, but Fedya held his grip, until Anatole gave up and slumped against his chest. There were no protests anymore. He didn’t have enough room in him to hold a grudge, least of all against Fedya.</p><p>Least of all with what he knew was in store.</p><p>Fedya rolled Anatole onto his back and climbed atop him. Anatole tangled his hands in Fedya’s hair, gently stroking it back, and wrapped his legs around Fedya’s waist, like an invitation. He furrowed his brow.</p><p>“Your shoulder,” he murmured.</p><p>“It’s fine, darling,” Fedya said. It was remarkably difficult to care about things like pain when his the front of his trousers had become so distractingly tight, and Anatole was lying beneath him, ready and willing and every bit as maddeningly tempting as his sister. He could wait to regret it in the morning.</p><p>“Are you sure—?”</p><p>“Enough about my bloody shoulder,” Fedya said, and pressed a rough, biting kiss to Anatole’s neck, hard enough that his lips would surely leave bruises. Anatole moaned initially, curling his hands tighter in Fedya’s hair, urging him on, then suddenly gasped as if he’d been stung.</p><p>“Stop that!” he squawked, pushing at Fedya’s chest. “You can’t leave any marks! She’ll see!”</p><p>Fedya didn’t much care to have his bedroom activities restricted by the likes of Marya Nikolaevna. He boxed Anatole in with his legs and yanked up the hem of his shirt. “We’ll see how near-sighted she is by the time I’m finished with you.”</p><p>For the next few weeks, Princess Mary was so wrapped up in her own misery that she failed to notice how every night after dinner, Fedya followed Anatole down the corridor to his bedroom, or how in morning at breakfast, their legs were intertwined beneath the table.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which one visit is far more successful than the other.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey pals!! WE POSTED AGAIN WHEW! Sorry for the delay! Life is v busy! A recurring theme! It also does not help that both of us are Extra neurotic perfectionists who have been working on this chapter for literal months. </p><p>Please be advised that this chapter contains vague references to parental abuse because bolkonsky and vasily kuragin both suck. </p><p>We hope that you are all staying safe and wearing your masks and socially distancing! </p><p>Also if the urge strikes to comment/ leave kudos we would deeply appreciate/ treasure it with everything we are</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mary hadn’t wanted to invite Natasha Rostova over for tea. She hadn’t wanted company, or the new sister-in-law, or the fuss of preparing the house for guests, or any of it. It would’ve made her perfectly happy to keep the door locked and the curtains drawn and continue with her quiet little existence undisturbed and in private.</p><p>But there were some things in life that you couldn’t avoid, no matter how badly you wanted to.</p><p>Andrei had left for deployment in the dead of night some weeks ago, slipped away and left behind a half-hearted note to wish them well. Mary had read it in disbelief, then fury, and had barely held herself back from crumpling it up and throwing it into the fireplace. All that night she’d held Nikolushka as he wept for his father, desperately missing a man he hardly even knew.</p><p>Abandoning them, again. Running away from his responsibilities and headlong into danger.</p><p>And now the issue of Natasha.</p><p>Ten minutes ago, the butler, a grey-haired fellow named Tikhon, had come in to announce that Count Rostov and his daughter had arrived. For the better part of those ten minutes, Mary had been lingering before the door to her father’s study, trying to sliver up whatever leftover bit of courage was still lurking in her belly.</p><p>Andrei’s abrupt departure had left their father in an even worse mood than usual. Every mention of Natasha Rostova’s name would set him off on a rage, and he would rant against her and the Tsar and the French until he was red in the face and spittle flew from his mouth. All morning he’d been going around the house finding fault with everything and everyone. She dreaded the inevitable explosion like a convict facing a cocked and loaded pistol.</p><p>It was aimed now, either way, and just about ready to fire.</p><p>Mary crossed herself with trepidation and whispered a prayer before cracking open the door. The study smelled of cigar-smoke, as it always did, and with the curtains drawn the only light came from an oil lamp on the bureau, giving the room the feel of a darkened chapel. The table was covered in worn open books and maps, and the enormous bookshelves with their glass doors were in need of dusting. Prince Bolkonsky was sitting in his seat facing away from her. Without his wig on, his head seemed very small, and his hair had lost more colour than she’d remembered. He’d aged so much it frightened her. But it hadn’t made him any less frightening.</p><p>“Hello, Father,” she said. “How are you feeling today?”</p><p>Without turning to look at her, Bolkonsky snarled, “It’s a damned coward who only greets their father at two in the afternoon, Marya.”</p><p>Mary grimaced. She would’ve avoided him all day if she could have. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy with Nikolushka…”</p><p>Bolkonsky scoffed and took his pipe between his fingers. “Lies too. I’d thought I’d raised my children more effectively.”</p><p>Mary looked down at her feet. Her mouth moved to form an apology, or better yet, an excuse, but her throat refused to cooperate. If she’d managed to scrounge up any courage at all before stepping into this room, it was gone now.</p><p>“Spit it out,” he snapped. “Have you forgotten how to speak now?”</p><p>“The Rostovs just arrived. I was wondering if you might like to join us for tea?”</p><p>Bolkonsky shot from his seat as if she’d lit a firecracker under his bottom, a wild look about him, his face red and his bushy brows drawn together into an angry grey line. “What did I tell you?” he roared.</p><p>Mary flinched back, raising her hands in front of her. “I know, I only thought—”</p><p>“I won’t see her! And don’t you dare ask me again!”</p><p>She ran, but not quickly enough for him. Something porcelain smashed against the wall just behind her head. She didn’t stop to see what it was. Without pausing to catch her breath or splash some water on her face to cool it, she flew down the stairs, to the front hall, and crashed solidly into a heavy stout figure.</p><p>“Ah, princess,” a voice chuckled, as two hands steadied her by the elbows. “Trying to give me a fright, eh?”</p><p>Mary saw who it was she’d run into, realized what she’d done, and her face went even hotter. “Count Rostov,” she gasped. “Forgive me, I wasn’t looking—”</p><p>“Not to worry at all, my dear.” Ilya Rostov took her hands and looked at her, with a smile that was shockingly pleasant for a man she’d all but barrelled over. “Look at you. How you’ve grown. You won’t remember me, would you? No, no, of course not. The last time I saw you, you hardly came up to my hip!”</p><p>It was true enough, embarrassingly—if he’d stood up on the tips of his toes, the top of his head would’ve hardly met Mary’s cheek. He hadn’t taken off his coat yet, and his shoulders and the top of his tasselled cap were dusted with snow. There was a fidgety edge to him, which might have been either nerves or absentmindedness.</p><p>He glanced over her shoulder, at the stairwell. “Is your father home?”</p><p>“Yes,” said Mary. “But he’s feeling poorly and won’t be receiving any visitors today.”</p><p>Ilya’s sigh of relief wasn’t lost on her. Nerves, then. “Terribly sorry to hear it.”</p><p>A young woman scarcely out of girlhood came bounding forwards, trembling with excitement. She was just as black-eyed and dark-haired as Ilya, but where Ilya’s features were round and droll, hers were delicate and pretty. Dressed in an emerald green frock edged with fine lace, with her cheeks all flushed from the cold, she looked like some pagan wood spirit, ephemeral and impossibly lovely.</p><p>So, this was Natasha.</p><p>“Here’s my songstress for you,” said Ilya, full to bursting with pride.</p><p>Mary disliked her instantly. There was something frivolous in dressing yourself up for a visit to the country like it was the opera. Vain, even. The sort of thing her father would have scoffed at. Another Russian who had tried to bury her roots in France.</p><p>“It’s lovely to finally meet you, Marie,” Natasha said. She embraced Mary and kissed her cheek, far too affectionately for someone she’d only just met, and seemed to expect Mary to return the gesture.</p><p>Mary forced a tight smile. <em>Presumptuous little thing</em>. “Likewise, Natalya Ilyinichna.”</p><p>Perhaps it was the patronym, or Mary’s too-sharp tone, or maybe even the sight of a sister-in-law so much less beautiful than she had expected—whatever it was, Natasha’s smile wilted. “Thank you,” she said, with a dim expression.</p><p>“There, you’ve met, you’re already getting along,” said Ilya. He looked around a little uneasily, as if afraid that Prince Bolkonsky might appear suddenly at the top of the stairs or catch him at the door. “You’ll give your father my well-wishes, won’t you? Now, if you’ll allow me to leave my Natasha in your hands for an hour, I’ll let you girls acquaint yourselves and have a little walk about by myself.”</p><p>Natasha gave her father an askance look. Ilya kissed her forehead and excused himself before either of them could say a thing.</p><p>The two women took each other in—Mary tall and thin and pale, Natasha with her cheeks and arms all flushed, plump as a cherub—and took their seats at the table by the window. There followed a long, stilted moment where neither seemed to know what to do or say. </p><p>Natasha sat with her hands folded in her lap and a few loose curls escaping her hairband and her head tilted slightly to the side. She looked, Mary thought uncharitably, rather like a small stupid bird when she did that. So young. Too young.</p><p>“I’m sorry the prince is still ailing,” Natasha offered.</p><p>Mary smiled. It was brittle and forced. “Thank you for your concern.”</p><p>“Is he very ill?”</p><p>“I’d rather not discuss that.”</p><p>Natasha faltered. The silence was awkward, but Mary let it hang untouched. She had never been one for small talk. It had always seemed pointless, fumbling your way through French pleasantries you didn’t mean, asking after people you didn’t really like or had already decided not to. Inhospitality was a sin, but dishonesty was worse.</p><p>“It must be very lonely here,” Natasha said. “With Andrei gone, I mean.”</p><p>“I have my husband.”</p><p>It was the expected answer, she knew, and much easier than the truth. Anatole was in Moscow anyhow, visiting his sister, probably drinking through her money and laughing at her all the while. He’d been away for nearly two weeks now, with no sign of returning anytime soon. These outings of his took him away from the Bald Hills more and more, but it hardly made a difference. You couldn’t miss a husband you had never really known.</p><p>Natasha smiled again. Grasping for any stray strands of conversation now. “He’s very handsome, your Anatole. I saw him at the Naryshkins’ ball. My godmother said he was courting Julie Karagina at the time. I suppose it didn’t work out,” she added on hastily. “Lucky for you!”</p><p>Mary couldn’t think of an adequate response to that.</p><p>“I imagine it’s all very exciting,” Natasha went on. “Marriage. Newlywed life. Everything’s been happening so quickly.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Mary in a cold, clipped voice. “And at such a young age.”</p><p>“It’s the most peculiar thing,” Natasha said seriously. “But I knew the moment I laid eyes on Andrei. I never thought it’d feel that way to fall in love.”</p><p>As if that mattered. As if it were true. Natasha didn’t know what love was. Didn’t understand how easy it was to let yourself become wrapped in a person until life and sense caught up to you, and dragged you back screaming. And how much more had Mary ever known herself? Certainly nothing of Anatole. She’d been proposed to the day after they’d met, and not even by the groom himself. Her handsome fairy-tale prince, the fantasy she’d always longed for, had never existed. That wasn’t love. Blind infatuation, clinging to a dream that didn’t wasn’t real, like a child.</p><p>Natasha lowered her eyes, playing with a stray thread on the hem of her sleeve, a little conspiratorial smile on her lips, looking even younger and more girlish and infuriating than ever. “I can’t stop thinking about the future. It’s terrible to have to wait. But all I want is him. And then my own family.”</p><p>Mary saw it all, what would come of this, the future just as clear as now—Natasha, beautiful, young, and most of all, loved, holding her infant in her arms. All the happiness that Mary would never have herself. She felt herself set alight with jealousy, and under the table her fingernails dug little crescents into her palms.</p><p>“It’s what every married woman wants,” she said. “But it’s better not to get your expectations up. He’s hardly a father to the child he has already.” </p><p>Disappointment sank into Natasha’s face, taking her smile with it. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“It’s the way men are. They’ll say one thing and think another. Your husband will always be uninterested in your children.”</p><p>“I don’t know how you’d know that,” said Natasha, in a clipped tone. “You’re no more a mother than I am.”</p><p>Mary could have slapped her for that. Knocked that pretty flush and that forced smile right off her lovely face. She hated her, this stranger, this <em>intruder </em>who had come to disturb her family and her peace. She didn’t need to play host or be patient. She’d been patient far enough already.</p><p>“I care very much for my brother and his happiness,” she said, drawing herself straighter and taller, until she had to look down at Natasha. “Which is why, as you can imagine, I wasn’t terribly thrilled by the prospect of him marrying a girl half his age.” </p><p>Natasha scowled. “I’m old enough to know what I want.”</p><p>“You might feel that way now,” Mary said, “but with age comes wisdom. You’re still naïve to the ways of the world. Things change once you’re married. You can’t expect Andrei to stay interested. After all—”</p><p>The door slammed open with a heart-stopping rattle. The two women almost leapt out of their seats in fright.</p><p>Prince Bolkonsky stood in the doorway, dressed just in his underthings. He’d put on a nightcap and a pair of slippers, which made nothing at all better. Mary dropped all her composure at once.</p><p>“Papa!” she shrieked.</p><p>Bolkonsky looked at Natasha, head to toe, and curled his lip as if looking at a stain on the carpet. “Ah,” he said, “so this is Andrei’s new harlot.”</p><p>Natasha went scarlet. Mary wanted to die right there, drop cold and dead to the floor, anything to end this nightmare. </p><p>“Papa,” she hissed, “you’re not dressed!”</p><p>“I never dress for children or peasants,” he snapped. “Now, let me have a look at her.”</p><p>With uneven dragging steps, he trudged closer and fished his glasses out of his pocket. Natasha flinched back as he lowered his face close to hers.</p><p>“What a little tart!” Bolkonsky said, to no one in particular. “I doubt there’s an original thought in there, eh? Prince Andrei likes his dull socialites.”</p><p>Natasha’s mouth fell open into a horrified <em>o</em>. She tugged her neckline up and drew her arms close to her chest. Mary’s heart panged in unexpected sympathy. How often had that been her instead, shrinking back from her father’s insults? Why did it feel so much worse to watch it happen?</p><p>Bolkonsky looked at her, wearing a deranged smile. Mary caught the gleam of something distinctly shrewd and deliberate in his eye. “Not as pretty as the last one,” he said. “Not much to look at at all, really.”</p><p>Then he left, muttering nonsense to himself. Mary had gone very still and very quiet. There was an odd heavy ache in her chest, where her heart was rattling away like a lead weight. Rather distantly, she realized she’d gotten caught on the exhale and forgotten to breathe in again.</p><p>Then she met Natasha’s eye, and immediately wished she hadn’t.</p><p>Natasha was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her face had gone an ugly shade of pink and her breaths were coming in short little pants and sniffles. She started from her seat and collected her reticule and gloves. Mary inhaled sharply. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.</p><p>“Natalie,” she began. “Please, wait—”</p><p>Natasha shook her head, her breath hitching a little faster, and took off down the hall. A lump rose in Mary’s throat. This was her fault. All her doing, all because she had been proud, all because she’d wanted to make someone suffer the way she had.</p><p>All her earlier anger forgotten, she dashed after Natasha, across the corridor and down the stairs, and caught her at the landing, reaching for her wrist. “Please,” she said, “Natalie, don’t leave, it’s not you, my father, he’s not been well—we’re so very happy for you and Andrei—I want you to know how glad I am my brother’s found happiness with—”</p><p>Mary paused. It wasn’t the truth, none of it, and Natasha had sensed it too. There was wrath in her expression now, almost hatred. Mary fumbled for something, anything to say, but the words had dried up in her throat.</p><p>Natasha took a breath, wiping away her eyes. “I think it’s best not to speak of these things, Princess,” she said, with cold dignity that barely concealed her revulsion.</p><p>Apologize, Mary told herself. Beg her forgiveness. But there were no words left in her. Guilt had paralyzed her. What was this she felt in her now? How could she have been so cruel? Had she truly wanted to apologize, or just to ease her own guilt?</p><p>Did any of that matter now?</p><p>“I do love your brother,” Natasha said. “And I had hoped to love you too. But I won’t throw aside my own happiness for yours.”</p><p>With a sharp tug, her mouth hardening into a stubborn line, she pulled her wrist out of Mary’s hand. Mary’s breath left her in a shuddery exhale.</p><p>“Good day, princess,” said Natasha, and she left the room still crying.</p>
<hr/><p>You didn’t go to the opera for the art, Hélène thought to herself, no matter what Ippolit might have insisted.</p><p>The theatre was packed full tonight, and in the audience she caught the glint of diamonds and opera glasses and the scent of expensive perfume. Semenova, a busty contralto wearing an enormous kokoshnik headdress and sarafan, was warbling through her aria, and behind her the chorus droned on like a swarm of particularly irritating bees, dressed in garish costumes and makeup.</p><p>But Hélène’s attention was elsewhere. Catching her reflection in her opera glasses, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and straightened her diadem. She had on her favourite set of pearls, the double-string that went all the way down to her waist. Her bare arms and exposed neck glowed in the opera house’s dim lights. It would’ve given that old cow Marya Dmitrievna a heart attack, but when you had a body like this, it was your God-given right to flaunt it.</p><p>“<em>Mais charmante</em>,” said Anatole, apparently in reference to the princess he’d been making eyes at across the theatre since they had taken their seats.</p><p>He looked particularly dashing tonight, dressed in a silver dinner jacket that almost matched his hair, which he wore tousled up to a height that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. All eyes were on their box, the Kuragin siblings reunited for an evening on the town. There were stares of envy and want in equal measure, whispers traded behind programmes and fans. Hélène knew they were beautiful, just as she knew that the sky was blue and their father loved her best.</p><p>And that was the point of it, really, she thought. To see, and to be seen. But not quite as much as Anatole might have hoped for.</p><p>“None of that,” Hélène said, catching his eye. “She’s engaged, anyhow.”</p><p>Anatole smiled bemusedly. “We’re here to look at pretty things, aren’t we?”</p><p>Hélène rolled her eyes affectionately and followed suit, letting her gaze wander from the stage. Familiar faces emerged wherever she looked. There were Boris and Julie, newly engaged, sitting with Princess Drubetskaya, an absolute nightmare of a woman who endlessly harangued Vasily for charity. It was no secret the family was destitute, but honestly, Hélène thought, you had to have a little more dignity than that.</p><p>Boris had done well for himself, finding a rich bride, even one as miserly and miserable as Julie, who clung to his arm so tightly she might just as well have had the poor fellow on a leash. Still, Hélène thought, and found herself smiling a little, there was something admirable in it, a woman who knew what she wanted and got what she demanded.</p><p>Incredible, the things enough money could get you.</p><p>Vasily had wanted Julie for Anatole once, back when he had started looking for a bride. Hélène counselled him on it, no doubt more diplomatically than their father ever had. It was the sensible thing to do. The inevitable thing, really. Anatole had been the scourge of Petersburg’s salons since roughly the age of sixteen, bewitching young socialites and terrorizing society matrons. By the time he was old enough to marry, he’d been costing Vasily almost forty thousand roubles a year.</p><p>And still, he’d dug his heels in. Hélène hadn’t been there to see it herself, but she knew him well enough to imagine how it must’ve gone. He’d told her afterwards it involved a poem mistaken for a joke, or something of that kind. There had been a string of other failed matches after that, each worse than the last, until their father’s limited patience had finally run out.</p><p>To this day Hélène didn’t know what he’d been threatened with—and he’d been threatened into it, that much was certain. When Anatole had returned from the Bald Hills betrothed, you would’ve thought Vasily had put a gun to his head.</p><p>The union between two of the oldest aristocratic families in Russia, the prodigal playboy and the shy churchmouse, had been met with almost unanimous approval. It was a tidy narrative, the sort that must have been almost as much of a draw to Vasily as the money. Being shackled down to a woman like that was meant to teach Anatole some humility. And in a way, it already had—he’d stopped complaining that it was the end of the world and all his happiness.</p><p>The first act came and went with thunderous applause and a storm of diminished sevenths, and as the curtain fell on a painted cardboard battlefield, Anatole leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms over his head.</p><p>“God, I missed civilization,” he sighed.</p><p>Hélène rolled her eyes indulgently. “I’m sure it hasn’t missed you, you rascal.”  </p><p>Anatole turned to her with a mischievous grin. “But <em>you</em> did, didn’t you?”</p><p>She had. So deeply it hurt, like the ache of a missing limb. Moscow had its charms, and she’d indulged herself now and then, but a lingering sense of hollowness followed her wherever she went, one she hadn’t been able to numb with champagne and beautiful dresses and handsome men.</p><p>Strange, how you could be surrounded by people and still feel so lonely.</p><p>She and Anatole had always been close, as far back as she could remember, closer than most husbands were to their wives. Between her and Ippolit, their parents must have had no attention left over for Anatole. If neither of them would love him, she’d decided, then she simply had to herself.</p><p>“I don’t blame you,” she said primly. “I can’t imagine a few weeks were enough to turn you provincial.”</p><p>“Not quite.” Then, from out of nowhere, hopping from one topic to the other with all the swift aimlessness of a jackrabbit, he said, “Dolokhov came to visit the house.”</p><p>Hélène forced herself not to grimace. Of course he’d gone running off to the country, someplace quiet to lick his wounds and fester in his own shame in peace. She was sure his pride smarted more than the bullet wound. Dolokhov the assassin, bested by a man who couldn’t hold a gun in his hands without shaking.</p><p>“Did he, now?” she said.</p><p>“I think you’ve upset him.”</p><p>Hélène exhaled sharply through her nose. “I’m not surprised.”</p><p>“I got to have a look at that scar of his.” Anatole brought his face closer to hers and lowered his voice. “Horrid-looking thing, isn't it? Who knew dear Petrushka had it in him?”</p><p>Hélène sighed. “They couldn’t even do me the decency of shooting each other dead.”</p><p>Anatole gave a soft laugh. “Well, sweet sister,” he said, and reached over to give her hand a squeeze, “you certainly bring out the beast in men.”</p><p>The whole affair should’ve been over by that night, after the duel, when Pierre had come to her in a seething rage and demanded a divorce. She hadn’t taken him seriously then. She never had. Not until he’d thrown a marble tabletop at her and shouted that he'd kill her. God only knew what he would’ve done after that if she hadn’t run from the room. She hadn’t felt that small and powerless in years. She’d thought she’d left that part of her behind in her childhood.</p><p>Anatole might have thought he was worse-off, stuck in the country with the Bolkonskys. But he would never understand, the way she did now, how it felt to fear your spouse.</p><p>“What can I say?” she said. Her voice came out strangely flat. “It’s a gift.”</p><p>There must have been something in her tone that worried him, or perhaps he just knew her that well, because he frowned and caught her cheek. “Lelya?” </p><p>She sighed. “Please don’t.”</p><p>“What’s the matter?”</p><p>Hélène smiled tightly and shook her head. Anatole studied her face, searching for an expression where there was none, and let his thumb softly brush her cheek. It was impossible to say what he was thinking when he was like this, his eyes wide and unreadable and blue as the Neva. She might just as well have been looking at a ghost. It unsettled her, to think there were things she couldn’t hide away from him entirely. She didn’t want to think of it at all.</p><p>“Is your wife so tiresome?” she said.</p><p>Anatole understood without a word, just as he always had. It was a trick they’d mastered long ago as children—saying what you meant without saying a thing at all.</p><p>“She’s well-avoided,” he said, and let his hand drop from her face. “You have the right idea about it, you know.” </p><p>Hélène straightened her pearls, grateful that they had left discussions of the duel behind. “It’s different with women. It can be checked.”</p><p>Anatole rolled his eyes. “Christ, Lena, you sound as old-fashioned as Papa. She goes horseback riding every day. I’m sure there’s nothing left to check.”</p><p>“Do you really want to leave that to chance?”</p><p>Anatole huffed and crossed his arms and said nothing.</p><p>Hélène lowered her voice. “You know how important this is to Papa. Think of how he’ll react if you ruin this.”</p><p>“You’ve no right to lecture me, you know,” he said, without looking at her. “Tell me, Lelya, when’s the last time Mama asked after her grandchildren?”</p><p>“I won’t be the one passing down the family name,” she said sharply. “I’ve done more than my share.”</p><p>She had, perhaps more than any other woman could have said. She’d pursued Pierre herself the second he’d come into money, played the dutiful daughter she’d been molded into and courted him with charming smiles and simple affection and calculated gestures of affection. And for all her efforts she’d become the richest woman in Russia, while her older brother wandered aimlessly around Paris and her younger whored and caroused his way through Petersburg.</p><p>And now, when Anatole finally seemed set to redeem himself and play the role that had been set for him, he shirked his duty.</p><p>He turned that unsettling empty look on her again. “And what do you have to show for it?”</p><p>Hélène snapped her fan shut. She could’ve reduced him to tears easily, but this wasn’t the time or place. She would forgive it, let it slide, pretend it was another one of his moments of lax judgement. It was easier that way.</p><p>“Oh, Elena, my darling!” came Anna Pavlovna’s voice from the aisle.</p><p>Anatole groaned and slid down in his seat. “God, not this one.”</p><p>Hélène swatted him with her fan. “Hold your tongue if you’ll only embarrass me.”</p><p>“But <em>Lena</em>—”</p><p>Anna appeared in the box dressed in blue gauze, her hair done up with a peacock feather, sapphires dangling from her ears, and made a beeline for Hélène. “My darling, how beautiful you look tonight.”</p><p>“Annette,” Hélène said, and stood to kiss her cheek. “You’re looking so well. How is your tante?”</p><p>“Very poorly, I’m afraid. She’s been suffering a bout of <em>la grippe</em>. But enough about me. How is dear Pierre getting along? I hear there was a bit of an upset between him and Captain Dolokhov at Count Rostov’s.”</p><p>For a scant moment, Hélène’s heart beat a little faster. Of course. Anna Pavlovna could sniff out gossip half a city away like a bloodhound after a fresh kill. But there was nothing wrong, she told herself. If Anna Pavlovna of all people was still fishing for details, surely no one important knew anything. And Hélène was quite practiced at rising above uncomfortable ambiguity. There would be something else for her to gossip over by teatime.</p><p>“He’s unwell, dear Annette,” she said. “The doctor advised an evening of bedrest.”</p><p>Anna furrowed her brow. “Is he quite alright?”</p><p><em>Did he take the bullet, or did Dolokhov, </em>she meant. Hélène forced herself to smile, unwilling to give the likes of Anna Pavlovna the satisfaction of seeing her falter. </p><p>“Of course,” she said, laughing lightly. “A touch of <em>la grippe</em>, nothing more. It must be going around.”</p><p>Anna raised an eyebrow, fluttering her fan demurely. “I was given to believe he was in much more dire straits.”</p><p>Hélène felt an irritable flush rise to her cheeks, which was perhaps why her response was decidedly poorly-thought out.</p><p>“A misunderstanding. You know how men are with their honour. <em>C’est trop drôle, non</em>?”</p><p>Anna’s eyes flashed in delight. “So, he <em>did </em>demand satisfaction from Monsieur Dolokhov?”</p><p>Hélène bit down on her tongue, realizing her error. Gossipy snake, she just couldn’t have left well enough alone. </p><p>“I’m starting to wonder if I’m invisible,” Anatole cut in. Hélène silently thanked him for the intervention as he stood and took Anna’s hand to kiss it, every bit the proper gentleman Vasily had beaten him into. “You look just as lovely as I remembered, Madame Scherer.”</p><p>“Prince Kuragin,” said Anna. Her smile became decidedly unfriendly. “You’re looking more and more like your father every day.”</p><p>“My thanks.”</p><p>“Where is your wife?”</p><p>“At home,” he said without missing a beat. “The city disagrees with her.”</p><p>Anna raised her eyebrows. She should’ve been far from surprised, Hélène thought. She’d known Princess Marya well before the match was suggested, better than any of them had, and had taken particular delight in gossiping about how cold and awkward and peculiar all of the Bolkonskys were.</p><p>“Such a shame,” said Anna. “I would’ve thought it would be quite the excitement for her.” </p><p>“She’s mad for the country air,” said Anatole. “<em>Bon pour la santé</em>, eh?”</p><p>“Too right you are. I’m surprised you were willing to leave her side. You should be enjoying your honeymoon someplace quiet.”</p><p>“What can I say?” Anatole said, tilting his head politely. “I felt I ought to make myself available to my sister, given her husband couldn’t attend.”</p><p>“You’re a devoted brother, Anatole Vasilyevich.”</p><p>A frost came over Anatole’s smile, that same deliberately vague expression Hélène had worn more times than she could count. He looked so much like their father for a moment that it chilled her. “Well,” he said, “we’re very close, as you know.”</p><p>Hélène was torn between kicking him and bursting into laughter. He’d only meant it to provoke, she knew, watching as Anna’s eyebrows crept further up her forehead and a high flush coloured her face. Anatole was just as aware as she was of the rumours about the two of them. The rumours that Anna herself had had a hand in spreading.</p><p>Anna opened her mouth to say something, but the house lights began to dim in warning for the second act, and she excused herself to hurry back to her seat.</p><p>“You idiot,” Hélène whispered as the curtains rose, fighting back laughter. “Dear Annette will be stewing for days trying to figure out what you meant by that.”</p><p>Anatole shrugged. “Dear Annette can go fuck herself.”</p><p>Semenova marched back onto the stage, carrying a bloody papier-mâché head on a platter and a red shawl, and began to wail again.</p><p>Anatole watched it all unfold with unabashed merriment, like a child, and Hélène felt a pang of bittersweet affection go through her. Christ, she thought. Apart for a scarce few months, and she’d hardly realized how much she’d missed him. </p><p>Halfway through the aria, as if he’d somehow read her thoughts, Anatole leaned over and whispered, “You’ll let me stay with you a little longer, won’t you?”</p><p>Hélène sighed. People would talk, she knew. And they talked enough as it was. But she had never been able to refuse anything that made him happy. She wanted him to stay, desperately, enough to throw wisdom and convention to the wind.</p><p>“Tolya,” she began.</p><p>“I’m bored to tears there,” he said. “You know how I miss you.”</p><p>“You’ll have to go back eventually, you know.”</p><p>“Why should it be now?”</p><p>Hélène smiled and squeezed his hand. “Alright.”</p><p>Anatole kissed her cheek. “You’re a wonder.”</p><p>She gave him a playful whack with her fan. “And you’re a shameless flatterer.” </p><p>There came an enormous bang, and a round of horrified gasps went up through the audience. Anatole gawked, and the orchestra staggered to a disjointed halt, the strings shrieking off a little after the brass, then the percussion went clattering to a standstill. The whole theatre seemed to hold its breath in horror and fascination.</p><p>Because Semenova, enormous headdress and all, had fallen down on the stage.</p><p>There was a breathless pause where no one said anything, only watched. Semenova hurried back to her feet, gulping for breath, and gave the pit a sharp gesture, as if to say <em>get the hell back on with it</em>. The other actors seemed not to understand.</p><p>And then Anatole, like the rudest man alive, began to laugh at the top of his lungs.</p><p>Patrons turned looks of disbelief and horror and scandal to their box. Hélène smiled in spite of herself. Laughing at anything and anyone, her idiot, darling Anatole. As if all the world was an entertainment made for him alone.</p><p>As the orchestra kicked back into action, he stood from his seat, laughing so hard he was crying, clapping loud enough it wouldn’t have surprised Hélène if it got him thrown out of the house, and pausing to wipe his eyes, shouted “<em>Brava!</em>” over and over again.</p><p>It was regrettable he had to be so far away from her, she thought. But in the moments like this, it was easy to pretend that nothing had changed, and that nothing ever would change.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Andrei is here.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey pals! Told you we had an update coming!! </p><p>This is our first time writing Andrei's POV and we are fans?? a soft sad boy??? catnip to us </p><p>Also! We published another standalone fic, called 'After the Comet'! If you like this, give her a read!</p><p>We appreciate you all so much, and we hope you're safe and well, and you enjoy this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“My God, look at the state of you.”</p><p>Pierre groaned at the familiar voice and struggled to lift his head. He’d fallen asleep at his desk again. His spine was one mass of aches from neck to tailbone, his stomach felt as if it were full of needles, and in his mouth was a sour dry taste. He could’ve easily listed over the side of his desk and retched.</p><p>“Are you awake at all?” the voice said, a little more insistently this time.</p><p>Pierre blinked his eyes open, squinting against the unwelcome light. Hélène was standing over him. Her hair was done up in an elegant knot, and under her mink stole she wore a plum-velvet concoction that bared her chest and shoulders. Dressed for the evening. It was anyone’s guess where she would end up tonight, or in whose bed.</p><p>Dolokhov’s, perhaps. Since that awful day at Otradnoe, he’d been tormented by visions of them in passionate embrace, his rough hands on her perfect skin, twisting her voice into wanton sounds of pleasure.</p><p>“Hm?” Pierre said, realizing he hadn’t responded.</p><p>Hélène looked down at him with all the reproach and disgust she might have shown a cockroach scuttling across her dinner plate. “To think I married a man like you.”</p><p>Pierre grunted and buried his face in his hands. Every bit of light and sound hurt, like a mallet hammering against his skull, none worse than her voice. It was strange she’d approached him at all. For the past few weeks, she’d made an effort to pretend he didn’t exist. After everything that had transpired between them—everything he’d done—it was difficult to blame her.</p><p>“Honestly, husband,” she sneered. “When was the last time you had a bath? Your study smells like a beer hall.”</p><p>She uttered the word <em>husband</em> as if it was an insult. Honestly, with the way everything had turned out, it might as well have been.</p><p>Pierre stifled a moan in the back of his throat and forced himself to sit upright. The headache was truly setting in now, a blinding spot that had settled in over his left eye like a white-hot poker. That was to be expected, he supposed. It was rare these days that he didn’t drink to the point of pain. But it was the only way to get a good night’s sleep when all those memories he would have rather not remembered came unbidden, more painful than the hangover.</p><p>The table. Jesus Christ. God only knew what sort of mania had possessed him to do such a thing. It wasn’t like him to be cruel, only perhaps now it was. Hélène and Dolokhov brought out something terrible in him, something he feared and loathed in equal measure.</p><p>He’d never seen such a look of terror on her face as he had then. Hadn’t thought a woman like Hélène had the capacity for anything like fear in her.</p><p>It was easier when she avoided him, when he didn’t have to look his own guilt in the eye. He was better off cloistering himself away from the world in these four walls with his books and his drink and letting his own misery eat him alive. At this point, Hélène could’ve held an orgy in the salon and he would’ve been none the wiser.</p><p>It didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore. His marriage was a joke, and his reputation was in shambles. He wasn’t in love with his wife, and probably never had been. If she had decided to pack her things and take the next train to Siberia, it couldn’t have made him any happier.</p><p>“I imagine you must have a monstrous headache by now,” Hélène said, straightening her necklace. “You’ve already made your way through half of my vintages.”</p><p>“Leave me be,” he snarled.</p><p>Ignoring him, Hélène strode across the room to the window and flung the curtains open. Late-afternoon light burst into the room. Pierre recoiled and raised an arm to cover his eyes.</p><p>“You have a visitor,” she said. “So I suggest you make yourself halfway presentable. Unless you want to look like an even bigger fool than you already are.”</p><p>Pierre lowered his arm. “I’m not taking calls today.”</p><p>She smiled coldly and turned on her heel. “I suppose I’ll tell Prince Bolkonsky you aren’t interested in his company, then.”</p><p>The name <em>Bolkonsky</em> struck Pierre like a bolt of lightning. He shot out of his seat so sharply his vision swam with black, tied the sash of his housecoat shut and straightened his glasses, then hurried after Hélène to the drawing room, where Andrei stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like a private awaiting orders.</p><p>He must’ve only just arrived in Moscow, because he hadn’t stopped to change out of his uniform jacket. Pierre fought the urge to rush over to him and crush him to his chest so tightly it lifted him off his feet.</p><p>“I see you’re looking stouter than ever, old friend,” Andrei said, shaking Pierre’s hand.</p><p>“You’ve a few new wrinkles on your forehead.”</p><p>Andrei laughed, something drawn and weary but so familiar. It deepened the lines in the corners of his eyes and made him look even more handsome than he already did. “It’s good to see you too.”</p><p>Pierre felt his heart tighten. He’d missed Andrei more than he’d realized. They’d been friends as boys, schoolmates in Paris, and close as brothers ever since. When Andrei was away, Moscow seemed colder, emptier. But he was here now. Perhaps all was not lost.</p><p>Hélène stepped forwards and offered Andrei her hand to kiss. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Andrei Nikolayevich,” she said. “War suits you splendidly, it seems.”</p><p>That look on her face, the too-perfect innocent smile, belied all of her thoughts, but Pierre didn’t have it in him to be jealous anymore. She’d put on this same performance before they’d gotten married, and he’d believed it. Every smile and every brush of her hand and every charming word she’d ever uttered had been part of a carefully-planned scheme to draw him in, like a siren calling sailors to their deaths. He’d wanted her more than a drowning man wanted air. Thought he’d loved her, even. Thought she’d loved him in return.</p><p>And there lay his mistake, thinking she could love anything besides her own body. Some people were born missing an arm or a leg. It seemed sometimes that Hélène had been born without a conscience, or a heart.</p><p>Andrei wasn’t taken with her act. He never had been. Sensible and aloof, like his father, never swayed by women or wine the way other men were. He pointedly ignored Hélène’s hand, giving her a curt nod instead. “I think you’d be hard-pressed to find any man that war suits, Countess,” he said coolly.</p><p>Hélène laughed and drew her hand back, letting her fingers trail across her collarbone. “Such a wit! Well, I’ll leave the men to their talk.”</p><p>Andrei stiffened as she kissed his cheek. To Pierre she gave a cold look, that false mask of a smile she wore more and more these days, and said, “Don’t expect me back until late.”</p><p>Then she turned her back on them and strode away. There came a draft in from the corridor, like a bit of snowy wind from outside had slivered itself in from the front door.</p><p>Pierre was suddenly stiflingly aware of the state of himself—unwashed, bedraggled, heavier than he’d ever been in his life. It wasn’t quite pity he saw in Andrei’s face; after all, Andrei had never been the pitying sort, not out loud at least. It might have only been his own self-shame and disgust reflected back at him. Hastily, he ran a hand down his front to brush off the wrinkles, then through his hair. His fingers caught sharply on a knot. Andrei politely declined to comment.</p><p>“How are things at the front?” Pierre asked.</p><p>Andrei’s face tightened. He’d always spoken of war as something heroic, something dreadfully noble and proud. Heroism suited a man like Andrei, who had dashed headlong into the fray at the battle of Austerlitz waving the Russian standard high and received a blow to the head for his troubles. </p><p>“Difficult,” he said.</p><p>Pierre’s hand found a bottle of wine as he sank into the armchair. “I wish I’d been there with you,” he said, pouring himself a generous glass. “I’ve always imagined it’s thrilling—all the cannons and bullet and smoke—it’d be more exciting than <em>this</em>, I tell you—”</p><p>“Pierre,” Andrei said, without intonation.</p><p>Pierre found himself shouting, gripped with sudden excitement. “And the honour of it all! To have the chance to face Napoleon himself in the field! If I were there—if it was me, I’d take my pistol and shoot the bastard through the heart, and I’d be damn proud of myself for it.”</p><p>Andrei sighed and eased himself into the seat beside Pierre’s. The lines in the corner of his eyes had deepened, and there were new flecks of silver at his temples. Andrei had been away for a year. Looking at him now, it might just as well have been ten.</p><p>He’d aged, Pierre thought. They both had. How heavily the last few months had weighed on them.</p><p>Pierre lowered his voice, ashamed to realize he’d gotten carried away. “You look tired, old friend,” he said.</p><p>Andrei’s smile was distant, his eyes a thousand miles away. It was impossible to say where his mind was. “I’ve been away too long.”</p><p>“Well,” said Pierre, “it’s good to see you back safe and sound.” It occurred to him that it was considered impolite not to offer guests something to drink. He held his glass out to Andrei. “Wine?”</p><p>“No,” said Andrei. His expression became withering, like scolding a child. “And you know you shouldn’t either.”</p><p>Pierre shrank back petulantly. The doctors had ordered him away from drink and heavy food, but he’d carried on the same just as he always had, and his heart was still beating. A man had to be allowed his small pleasures when the rest of the world had gone to shit.</p><p>“Doesn’t matter for me, does it?” he said. “Can’t do me much more harm than it has already.”</p><p>“You’re blind drunk.”</p><p>Pierre shrugged. Perhaps he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sober, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Drunkenness he enjoyed. It was one of the precious few things left that still brought him any bit of joy. “So I am.”</p><p>“You’ll go to your grave young, you know,” Andrei said.</p><p>“I’m not young anymore. This place, it…” He fiddled with the glass, noting that his hand couldn’t hold itself still. “It wears you down, Andrei.”</p><p>“The place, or the people?”</p><p>Pierre glowered, sinking lower against the cushion. Andrei, for all his genteel politeness, had never made it a secret he held little care for aristocrats, least of all the Kuragins. He’d warned against Hélène from the start. <em>You won’t be happy with her</em>, he’d told Pierre. <em>There’s nothing good you’ll find in that family. </em></p><p>Pierre hadn’t listened to him, arrogant and infatuated as he had been, thinking Andrei was only jealous, and now he wished he had.</p><p>“That’s why you need your getaways, eh?” he said.</p><p>Andrei looked down at his feet, looking almost sentimental, an oddly-placed expression that didn’t seem to fit on his face. “Not for forever.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me you’re settling down?”</p><p>“Perhaps I am. I’ve kept Natasha waiting long enough.”</p><p>Pierre sat up straighter. Dear sweet Natasha, who used to run to the middle of the ballroom to sing whenever Sonya sat down at the piano. Marya Dmitrievna’s little wild Cossack of a goddaughter. He remembered that night at the Naryishkins’ soirée, when he had been too shy and drunk to do much more than dither in the corner of the room. Hélène had engaged the Tsar in the waltz, and had probably fucked him afterwards too, knowing her. And Natasha, beautiful and so young-looking, had been left alone at the edge of the ballroom waiting for someone to ask her to dance. Pierre had gotten the urge to approach her, then stopped himself. She wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with an awkward oaf like him. And it hadn’t mattered in the end, because Andrei had gotten there first and offered her his hand.</p><p>Watching them dance together, silver and glittering as angels, their beautiful faces lit with joy, Pierre had found himself moved almost to tears. <em>That </em>was what love looked like, he thought, love he’d so longed for his whole life. Sometimes when he let his mind wander a little, he could still remember that fleeting crystalline taste of happiness.</p><p>“I paid her a visit the other week,” he said. He found himself smiling so widely it hurt his cheeks. “Full of life and mischief. And just as beautiful as ever. She’s been missing you terribly. You’re a man to be envied, Andrei.”</p><p>Andrei smiled, <em>truly</em> smiled, a faint blush painting his cheeks. He looked strangely relieved. “I haven’t seen her yet,” he admitted.</p><p>Pierre shook his head, remembering himself. “What the devil are you doing here then, Bolkonsky?” he shouted. “Go and see your fiancée! Give her my love.”</p><p>He yanked Andrei from his seat and pushed him down the hallway, batting off his protests. Andrei caught himself on the doorframe, an uncharacteristically playful grin on his face.</p><p>“Pierre,” he said.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’ve crumbs in your beard.”</p><p>Pierre ruffled Andrei’s hair affectionately and shooed him out the door. “Get out, you.”</p><p>Andrei tugged on his outerthings and kissed Pierre’s cheek goodbye. Pierre watched as he made his way down the steps, the wind and snow catching in his hair and fur hat, and hailed a passing troika down Prechistenskaya Boulevard. He gave Pierre another wave from the sleigh, then he was off.</p><p>Pierre shivered. There was snow at his feet and down the front of his dressing gown—he’d left the door open longer than he should have. He pushed it shut, then staggered back down the hall to his study, drew the curtains, and let his aching body fall into the seat at his desk. Something painful and cold had settled in his chest, in the place where his heart might have been.</p><p>He reached after the half-drunk bottle of wine on his desk, then on second thought, went for the vodka instead. In the glass he could see his warped reflection, the hollow darkly-lined eyes and the sad crooked mouth and the flush of drink staring back at him. What a clown of a man he’d become. Pathetic and cringing, hiding away from the world like a frightened child.</p><p>He used to be better. Andrei had known a better man than this. God only knew what had become of him.</p><p>Perhaps it was all for the better this way, he thought dully. Andrei would have Natasha and all his happiness, and Pierre would have his wine to keep him company.</p><p>How wonderful it might have been, he mused absently, to know their happiness and call it his own. But happiness wasn’t for men like him.</p><p>There was no point dwelling on it. Pierre drank deeply. It burned on the way down, but the burning was a welcome distraction. He prayed it would soon send him back to sleep.</p><p>He was in love, and more miserable than he’d ever been in his life.</p><hr/><p>Andrei gave the sleigh-driver the address to Marya Dmitrievna’s house, where the Rostovs were spending the New Year. The wind roared in his ears as familiar buildings and streets swept him by, lashed with ice. He smiled, tilting back his shapka, and let the snow gather in his eyelashes and hair. Petersburg had always seemed full of pointless artifice, all gleaming buildings and people without a scrap of substance, a false imitation of Paris. Moscow was nothing grand, but it had never tried to be something it wasn’t. A person could’ve even felt at home here.</p><p>The sleigh stopped at a redbrick townhouse on Konyushennaya Street with wrought-iron gates and a yellow light on in the window. Andrei lingered in the doorway, waiting for the footman to announce his arrival, as the porters brought in his things and the snow on his boots melted into a puddle.</p><p>Marya kept her house pristine; all the floors had been mopped and everything had been scrubbed clean for the New Year festivities. The parlour was a loud and stuffy affair of doilies and diptychs, and every surface was covered in lace and little ornamental boxes and icons of the Theotokos, all clamouring for the eye’s attention. Marya, tall and stout as ever, only with more grey in her hair than he remembered, was sitting in her armchair by the fireplace knitting a blanket with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Andrei noted that Nikolai was back from his own deployment, sitting so close to Sonya that they might just as well have been in each other’s laps, and Ilya Rostov smoking his pipe with a red face and a tarboosh perched jauntily on his head. </p><p>It was all scruffy and cosy as an old dressing-gown, and the snow and ice roaring outside made the warmth indoors all the more delectable. Andrei shifted his weight back and forth between his aching feet. Every inch of him suddenly sagged with exhaustion. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed quiet like this? He was tempted to sink into an armchair with a cup of tea, put his feet up on the ottoman, and let sleep take him for as long as it wanted.</p><p>There was still a war going on out there. And somehow they’d all forgotten about it.</p><p>“Presenting Prince Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky,” announced the footman.</p><p>The room was alight at once, and that was the end of any quiet he could’ve hoped for. Andrei was swarmed. His hands were shaken, and his shoulders were clapped, and a dozen kisses were pressed to his cheek, and everyone’s voices overlapped each other at the same time.</p><p>“How the Devil are you, my dear boy?”</p><p>“Bolkonsky! Took your time getting back, eh?”</p><p>“When did you arrive?”</p><p>“You should rest your feet after all your travels, have a seat, I insist!”</p><p>“Have you lost weight?”</p><p>“Come in, come in, don’t dawdle!”</p><p>Andrei quailed inwardly. He’d never been the sort to relish in attention, or really more than actively dread it. Only Sonya, of the lot of them, left him alone. Andrei only caught the tail end of her sentence as she scurried off down the hallway—<em>he’s here</em>.</p><p>Marya shouldered her way towards the front of the pack and gripped him by the arm. Andrei startled, then smiled. If Kutuzov had had any sense at Austerlitz, he thought, he would’ve simply set her loose on the French.</p><p>“We’ve heard of your success in the field, Andrei Nikolayevich,” she said. “You ought to be very proud of yourself. I’ll have you know, I requested a moleben for you asking for your safe return, and I’ve been lighting a candle in church for you every Sunday.”</p><p>Andrei nodded politely and let her press a peppermint-scented kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, madame.”</p><p>“And how is your family?”</p><p>“Very well,” he said. “I expect I’ll visit them soon.”</p><p>“Not too soon!” Ilya chuckled, wagging a finger. “My Natasha has been pouring over your letters for months, you know. She’ll be very excited to see you.”</p><p>At that moment, there came a creak from the door. Sonya was leading in a dark-haired girl from the hallway.</p><p>At that same moment, Andrei forgot how to breathe.</p><p>It had been a year since he’d last laid eyes on Natasha. A year could bring all sorts of change, in so many ways. The letters they’d exchanged had been few and far between. He’d told her she was free to refuse him, and had dreaded it since, fearing her eventual loss in every dwindling response.</p><p>But when Natasha laid eyes on him, all he saw was joy.</p><p>Andrei inhaled sharply with a dizzy rush of relief and affection. He wanted to run to her, to take her in his arms and kiss her with all the longing and desire he’d held back, but he would do no such thing with her godmother’s eyes burning a hole into the back of his head.</p><p>Natasha started after him. Andrei bowed his head, halting her, and kissed her hand. “I’m delighted to see you looking so well, Countess Rostova.”</p><p>Natasha frowned. Andrei hesitated. She looked displeased with him. It was likely she was. After a year apart, she’d probably expected a warmer greeting than this.</p><p>“And you as well, Prince Bolkonsky,” she said.</p><p>“Yes, yes, that’s all very well!” Ilya said, tugging Andrei’s coat off his shoulders. “But we should hardly call ourselves patriots if we weren’t to offer this poor boy any refreshment after his journey.”</p><p>Marya Dmitrievna served them all tea, which she made with too much rum, then insisted on a proper Sunday dinner. There was pleasant chatter, and the servants brought out roast goose and suckling pig and sparkling wine, then honey cake for dessert, but Andrei could hardly touch any of it. His stomach had twisted itself into knots that tightened whenever he looked at Natasha.</p><p>“It’s wonderful to see all of our lovebirds reunited,” said Ilya. With his face as ruddy as it always was, it was difficult to tell if he was drunk, or just in a particularly merry mood. The Count was daft, provincial, and generous to a fault, which had landed the estate in a bit of trouble more than once. The sort of man Prince Bolkonsky would have scoffed at. But for all his faults, or perhaps because of them, it was impossible to dislike him.</p><p>“And we deserve it,” Ilya continued, “after all that trouble with the in-laws—”</p><p>“Papa,” Natasha said, her cheeks flaming red.</p><p>“I’m sorry?” said Andrei.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Natasha said quickly.</p><p>“It wasn’t nothing!” Ilya said. “My Natalenka was very upset, and it broke my heart. I asked her in the carriage if she wouldn’t rather just call this affair off altogether, and she said <em>absolutely not, Papa</em>, and I said, <em>if that’s what you insist, my darling, very well</em>.”</p><p>“What happened?” Andrei asked.</p><p>“Ilya,” Marya said in warning.</p><p>“It’s nothing to do with you, of course,” Ilya said to Andrei. There was a definite slur to his words now. “You know how it is with families. Your father and sister were…well, I was told they were a little unkind, you see.”</p><p>Natasha went even redder. Andrei felt his heart sink to the pit of his knotted-up stomach. He felt sick with shame and anger. He’d expected unpleasantness from his father. Not Mary. But then again, he thought, remembering her reaction to the engagement, that cold unhappy look she’d given him, maybe he should have.</p><p>“Please accept my apology on their behalf,” he said. “Our father’s been very unwell.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, of course,” said Ilya, waving him down. “These things happen. It’s nothing like the jolly hell we gave these two!” He gestured to Nikolai and Sonya. “The Countess was mad enough to spit ink, bless her. I thought she would write our Coco out of the will.”</p><p>Sonya set her cutlery aside, seemingly having lost her appetite. Nikolai laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it.</p><p>Andrei frowned. He knew that it was a terrible match, just as he knew that this sort of matter shouldn’t have been discussed at the dinner table. A little while back, Nikolai had gotten himself caught up in some trouble with Fyodor Dolokhov’s gambling ring, so the rumours went, and lost the better part of the family fortune in a game of poker. If he married Sonya, the orphaned ward with no dowry to speak of, a life of poverty awaited them both. Love drove people to strange and ill-advised ends, Andrei supposed.</p><p>“But life goes on!” said Ilya, on the verge of laughter. “And now the matter’s all settled nicely, and the missus is happy, which means we’re all happy. All’s well that ends well, as I always say. Money shouldn’t matter if you love each other.” He patted Andrei’s shoulder. “Of course, we won’t have to worry about either with you!”</p><p>“Ilya, you’re being inappropriate,” Marya snapped.</p><p>Ilya flushed. Though he was older and portlier, for a moment he looked shockingly like Natasha. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I never meant…it never occurred to me…you know how muddled my mind gets at this hour.”</p><p>Marya straightened her shawl, leaned back in her seat, and before anyone else could sneak a word in edgewise, proceeded to gossip at length about the women she sat with in church, and the state of Madame Chambord’s newest dresses, and the latest thing she had seen at the opera. All the while, Natasha, on the other side of the table, watched Andrei with her wide dark eyes.</p><p>By the time dinner had ended, it was almost midnight. Andrei excused himself to the guest bedroom and shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat. The bedclothes had been freshly-washed and the window-panes were frosted over with ice. It was dark outside, and the snow was falling in soft flurries. Andrei sighed. The cannonfire and gunsmoke all seemed so distant now. It had been too long since he’d known the base comfort of a night in a warm bed.</p><p>From the door there came a soft creak. Andrei turned his head.</p><p>Moonlight pooled into the room, bathing everything in silver. Natasha stood in the doorway, barefoot, in her nightgown, her hair in a loose plait. Her chest rose and fell heavily.</p><p>“Hello, Andrei,” she said.</p><p>Andrei’s mouth went dry. Something tightened around his heart. “Hello, Natasha,” he echoed.</p><p>Natasha strained towards him, lifting a little off her toes, like a bird threatening to take off in flight. There were no eyes to see or judge them here. Andrei relented, weakened, and took her into his arms. Natasha sighed and let herself melt against his chest.</p><p>“You’re here,” she whispered.</p><p>Andrei pressed his face into the crook of her neck and let her run her hands through his hair and across his shoulders. She smelled of vanilla and lilies and wheatgrass, like the spring waiting for winter to melt. Tears welled in his eyes.</p><p>He’d come home to Lise too late to make amends. He’d gotten the last few minutes of her life, a brief kiss, and no proper goodbye. The memory of it had haunted him in the dark lonely hours of night ever since. He’d abandoned her when she’d needed him most, and he would carry that regret with him for the rest of his days. </p><p>But Natasha was here. Still a chance for redemption.</p><p>He squeezed her tighter, felt her heart beating against his, listened to the sound of her breathing, and told himself not to cry.</p><p>“Andryusha?” she murmured. Her fingers traced his cheek, just below his eyelashes. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>Without answering her, or perhaps in response, Andrei caught her chin and tilted it up, bringing her into a gentle kiss. Natasha returned it with urgency, her slender hands curled in the folds of his jacket, her lips hot and demanding against his.</p><p>“I was so lonely,” she said. “Oh, God, Andrei, all I could think of was you.”</p><p>“Natasha,” he breathed.</p><p>Natasha let her face linger close to his, taking in his features, touching his cheeks. Her eyes glittered with tears. “I thought of you every day,” she said. “Every minute. I was so frightened you’d never come, or something would happen to me before you did.”</p><p>Andrei’s heart ached heavily. It was a comfort to know your fear was not yours alone.</p><p>“Was Masha truly awful?” he asked.</p><p>Natasha gave a bittersweet smile, her tears threatening to spill over. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said, with all the self-assured wisdom of some ancient sage. “She wrote me to apologize and I’ve forgiven her. And now we’ll forget it ever happened. She’s really quite sweet, I think.”</p><p>What he wouldn’t have given, Andrei thought, to be as unburdened as her. She seemed to have that remarkable gift of being able to see a bit of goodness in everyone, even if it wasn’t there. He didn’t understand it. He suspected her never would.</p><p>Andrei let his hand brush the stray hairs back from her face. “I love you,” he whispered. </p><p>“I love you too.”</p><p>He inhaled with a little tremor. His mouth spoke for him, before his nerves could get to him, before his mind could decide against it. “I asked you before I left if you would be my wife. Will you still have me now?”</p><p>Natasha laughed and let her fingers curl around his wrist. “Honestly, Andrei, what sort of a question is that? Of course I will. Always.”</p><p>Andrei laughed, suddenly giddy. He remembered that day before his deployment, when it had snowed at Otradnoe, over a year ago now. Natasha had grabbed his hand and taken off suddenly, laughing like a child, and together they’d fallen into the snowdrift and let the frost seep through their furs and coats, and when their lips had met the heat of it had warmed him through to his bones. He felt the same happiness that had overtaken him, and he kissed her again just as he had then. Tenderly, taking his time. Savouring every moment of it.</p><p>Natasha’s hands reached down, to the narrow space between them and untucked his shirt. Her thumb brushed the coarse hairs beneath his navel with a shy earnestness that made him flush scarlet. What an eager little thing she was. The thought of those delicate hands and that lovely mouth of hers had kept him warm in his tent many nights at the front. It was startling and strange, the feelings she aroused in him.</p><p>Natasha’s hand continued down, further than it should have. Heat pooled low in his stomach. They’d gone this far already, at her insistence, but never any further, at his. It was difficult to deny her what she wanted. But it was a matter of her honour, and for that, he would restrain himself, for her own sake.</p><p>Andrei caught her wrist before it could go any further and broke the kiss. Natasha’s face, red as his own, darkened in wordless disappointment. He brushed the hair back from her temple. “Soon, <em>moya dusha</em>,” he murmured.</p><p>Natasha closed her eyes and sighed. She let her forehead fall against his shoulder. “Not soon enough.”</p><p>“It’ll be worth it. You want a proper wedding night, don’t you?”</p><p>“It isn’t fair,” she said quietly, into his chest. “It isn’t fair we have to wait.”</p><p>Andrei wrapped his arms around her waist, absently toying with the end of her braid. He regretted the delay even more than she did. Regretted that he had once again bent to his father’s will, allowed him to control him. What purpose had any of it served? Why had he allowed himself to be miserable this long?</p><p>He’d thought when Lise had died all his happiness had died with her. And here it was, returned to him again, living and precious and beautiful, and warm as an angel in his arms. Life wasn’t over. He’d hardly even begun to live it.</p><p>“Not much longer,” he whispered into her hair. “I promise you that.”</p><p>They stood that way, the two of them, neither moving or speaking, only listening to the sound of each other’s breaths, their lips inches apart. A languid silence hung between them.</p><p>“Go to bed,” Andrei said eventually. “Before your godmother catches you and skins me alive.”</p><p>Natasha leaned up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You make me a terribly impatient woman, Prince Andrei.”</p><p>Andrei smiled and caught her hand. “Go,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p>Natasha kissed him quickly again and slipped out of the room with silent footsteps. In the darkened hallway, her nightgown floated out behind her, giving her the look of a ghost, or perhaps an angel. Andrei watched her from the doorway until she drifted out of sight. He could still feel the warmth of her lips against his.</p><p>Andrei let himself fall backwards onto the bed and stared at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head, listening as his heart hammered away like a war drum and grinning like a fool. Was this how it felt? He’d almost forgotten.</p><p>Andrei knew he would sleep well that night. He was in love, and happier than he’d ever been in his life.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A wedding.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Iconic that someone's life gets worse when Anatole is added to it, just as someone's gets better when he's subtracted. </p><p>Hi all!! Sorry for the delay in posting! We are both a lil burnt out currently, and this chapter went though about a MILLION changes (we initially thought it would be short, which is A Funny Joak). Please let us know if you like! We &lt;3 comments in particular!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Otradnoe wasn’t quite in shambles yet, Mary thought, but certainly heading in that direction. Why anyone would have decided to hold a wedding reception here, with the house in this state, was beyond her. Everything looked as if it had been tidied and put away in a hurry and without much thought. Here and there the wallpaper was scuffed, and the floors needed sweeping, and the upholstery was faded and patchy. But there was an odd, unsophisticated sort of charm to it, under the scruff. Once the champagne and vodka were flowing, the guests were all tipsy and happy, and the room filled with a warm merry glow.</p><p>Mary had never cared much for parties. It was all too much for one person sometimes—the crush of people, the music and laughter and talk, the heat of a hundred moving bodies, the thick scent of perfume intermingled with perspiration. She hadn’t expected to enjoy any of this. Hadn’t thought another person’s happiness could become her own.</p><p>Yet she found herself smiling as Count Ilya Rostov raised his glass to give his toast to Natasha and Andrei. It was unpolished, rambling, nearly incoherent at times. Hardly the sort of speech a Bolkonsky would’ve given. There were jokes between laughter and tears, tangents and old yarns that lovingly rambled off into nowhere, and the guests laughed and cried with him. Ilya spoke until his voice shook and every sentence was interrupted by sniffles and hiccups.</p><p>“My little Natalenka,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “All a parent can do is wish for their child’s happiness. And to see them find it in another person…it’s the greatest joy of my life to see you married to such a fine young man and to call him my son. And it is the greatest honour to call you my daughter.”</p><p>Natasha’s face was wet with tears of joy. She was sitting at the head of the table with Andrei, who had wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Mary glanced askance at the empty seat to her left. She felt some of the happy warmth leave her.</p><p>Anatole had been a perfect gentleman all evening, helping her in and out of the carriage, pulling her chair out for her, saying <em>bonjour</em> and <em>s’il vous plaît</em> and <em>merci</em> in all the right places. But as soon as the first bottle was uncorked, he had absconded, and she had only caught scant glimpses of him since. No hope of any affection on that front.</p><p>Flushed red, the tears spilling freely now, Ilya set his drink and his speech aside and wrapped Natasha in his arms. He kissed both of her cheeks and forehead, then proceeded to do the same to Andrei. Countess Rostova pulled him back by his waistcoat with a fond tired smile that seemed to say, <em>now then, you silly old thing</em>.</p><p>Watching them, Mary’s chest tightened in want. How often had she dreamt of this, she wondered. Family? A father you loved more than you feared? A mother living and breathing?</p><p>Natasha let Andrei take her hand and lead her out to the middle of the floor for their first dance. Before the orchestra could start up, they kissed, just as they had in the church beneath the gold-leaf dome and the benevolent face of Christ, something sweet that was somehow passionate and chaste all in one. Mary felt a sharp tug in some tender place in her chest that might have been pain or joy, or perhaps both.</p><p>The strings stirred into a waltz, and Natasha and Andrei seemed to slip into a trance. They danced beautifully, perfectly, not missing a step. Their bodies moved in time with each other, without thought, as if there were no one else in the world but them. It looked effortless. Almost like sleepwalking.</p><p>Natasha smiled up at Andrei, her eyes wet with tears. Mary’s heart tightened. It was impossible to resent her this way—beautiful, beaming, overflowing with joy. It struck Mary, not for the first time, how very young Natasha was. She was innocent and in love and hadn’t known the pain of heartbreak yet. Who had Mary been to fault her for that?</p><p>When the waltz ended, there was a smattering of cheers and applause, and Ilya popped open another bottle of champagne that foamed up and ran down his sleeve to a riot of laughter from Countess Rostova. Natasha and Andrei drifted back to the table, smiling and red-faced, still holding hands. As they drew closer, Natasha caught Mary’s eye and beamed, pulling Andrei towards her.</p><p><em>Pretty </em>wasn’t the word for Natasha. She was dressed simply tonight, in a white silk gown that made her look even more radiant for how plain it was, and a locket on a thin brass chain. In the dim candlelight of the ballroom, she almost seemed to glow.</p><p>Mary expected Natasha to be cold and distant, to offer no more than the bare minimum of politeness, if even that. After everything that had been said, it was what she deserved.</p><p>But there was nothing cold or distant about Natasha. She embraced Mary tightly and kissed her cheek with all the same thoughtless affection she’d shown her the day they’d met at the Bald Hills.</p><p>“Thank you for coming, Masha,” she said.</p><p>Mary hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all night, so she knew the warmth that bloomed in her chest wasn’t tipsiness. She’d been forgiven. Of course Natasha didn’t have it in her to hold a grudge. There was too much kindness in her, too much love, and no room left behind for anything like bitterness. At once everything seemed brighter.</p><p>“You look beautiful, Princess,” Mary said.</p><p>There was an impish little twinkle in Natasha’s eyes. She squeezed Mary’s hands, like greeting a beloved childhood friend. “Oh, but we’re sisters now! You must call me Natasha.”</p><p>Mary smiled. Almost laughed. She felt her face heat and kissed Natasha back. “Thank you, Natasha.”</p><p>“Hey! <em>Malyshka</em>!” called a male voice. Mary and Natasha whipped around in tandem. There stood a tall fair-haired man in a Hussar’s uniform, a sabre belted at his hip. He was almost handsome, in a boyish sort of way, although he would’ve looked less silly without the scraggly moustache on his upper lip. Mary had seen him before, couldn’t quite place the name, but recognized the wide dark eyes and delicate birdlike features in Natasha.</p><p>Natasha gave a delighted shriek and threw her arms around his neck. “You’re a horrid brat to call me that, Kolya!”</p><p>“You’ll give your big brother a waltz, won’t you, <em>Natalyushka</em>? It’ll be practice for my wedding.”</p><p>“Only if you promise to give Sonya a go after me.”</p><p>Nikolai—that was his name, Mary supposed—grinned. “Lead the way then, Princess Bolkonskaya.”</p><p>Natasha pressed a quick kiss to Andrei’s cheek and ran off with Nikolai to join the dance. Mary blinked as his words circled around in her mind. <em>Princess Bolkonskaya</em>. That had been her once. Wasn’t it still?</p><p>Andrei cleared his throat, drawing her attention. He folded his hands behind his back. “I don’t suppose you’d care for a dance too?”</p><p>Mary pressed her lips into a thin line, almost a grimace. “Andrei, you know I wouldn’t.”</p><p>To her surprise, Andrei smiled. “Good. My feet are hurting.”</p><p>He let himself into the chair beside her, where Anatole was meant to sit, and clasped his hands between his knees. For a few minutes, as the music washed over them and the dancers wheeled about the floor in giddy circles, neither said a thing.</p><p>Mary worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Chatter came to her just about as easily as a Viennese waltz, and Andrei was prone to sullenness at the best of times. Between the two of them, she thought, it seemed a miracle they were able to get a sentence out at all.</p><p>“Andrei,” she began, then faltered. Her voice came frail and unsure, like a frightened little girl’s. She swallowed and spoke again. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you about Natasha. And about what happened.”</p><p>Andrei sighed, lowering his chin. It was impossible to tell what meant he meant by it. Mary felt the guilt well up in her in a hot rush that made her stomach twist and her eyes burn. If she hadn’t been sitting already, she wasn’t sure she would’ve trusted her legs enough to stand.</p><p>“I was horrid,” she said. “I wouldn’t have blamed her if she never wanted to speak with me again. I know you’re angry with me. I don’t expect you to forgive me for it, but I hope you know how much I regret every unkind thing I said to her. And you as well.”</p><p>“I was angry,” Andrei said, stressing the <em>was</em>. A smile curled his mouth. “But Natasha asked me to set that aside.”</p><p>Something in Mary’s chest lightened. “I’ll have to thank her, then.”</p><p>“You should, you know,” Andrei said quietly. “All she wants is your love.”</p><p>Mary drew in a shaky breath. She wasn’t done yet. There were amends still to be made.</p><p>“And I’m sorry for what I said about Lise,” she whispered. “I was jealous and petty and…I’m <em>happy </em>for you, Dryusha. Truly, I am. And I know she would be too. She loved you more than anything. She would’ve wanted you to move on with your life and find love again. I believe it with all my soul.”</p><p>Andrei’s eyes shone wetly. He looked, for a brief moment, close to tears. Not hurt, she realized. Grateful. Awkwardly, a little coldly, she put her hand over his. Andrei turned his wrist up so that his fingers softly brushed her palm. Where their hands met there was warmth.</p><p>“Masha,” Andrei said, his words slow and careful, “I want you to know how much I hope you find your own happiness, even if—”</p><p>He stopped himself, as if regretting some thought, and shook his head. Mary didn’t press him to say anything more. He didn’t need to. The silence that fell over them spoke more of comfort than unease, for the first time in a long while. Andrei’s eyes drifted back to Natasha. His face softened. There was that smile she’d so sorely missed, the one that wrinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger.</p><p>So, Mary thought. This was what Natasha brought out in him. Happiness.</p><p>Mary realized she was dangerously close to crying. “Go be with your wife,” she said.</p><p>The lines of Andrei’s smile deepened. A familiar weight settled again in Mary’s chest as he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, letting it linger, something startlingly sweet, a sort of warmth she hadn’t felt in years.</p><p>“I love you, Masha,” he said.</p><p>“I love you too.”</p><p>Mary didn’t watch him leave. She didn’t want to see him take Natasha’s hand, or kiss her, or enjoy the love Mary had never felt. She couldn’t resent him for it. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.</p><p>She gathered herself from her chair and skirted her way through the crowd to the back of the room, where the doors were flung open to let in the stragglers and the night air. A minute alone away from all the fuss and noise. A few moments to herself. That was all she needed.</p><p>Outside it was clear and cold and quiet, and the hills were thick with winter’s last snowfall. The tumult of the party and the orchestra faded into the background. Mary breathed in the air, felt it cool the heat of her face where it had gone red and blotchy, and blinked back her tears. She could brave the rest of the night. She had to.</p><p>“Ah, there you are, Marie,” came a woman’s voice from behind her.</p><p>Mary turned, so startled she almost lost her balance, and found herself face-to-face with Hélène’s décolletage.</p><p>“You’ll make me feel unloved, you know,” Hélène said, without a hint of embarrassment. “You haven’t even bothered to say hello to me all evening.”</p><p>Her smile gleamed brilliantly. Everything about her did. Tonight she was resplendent in diamonds, dressed in a brilliant shade of green satin with a silver diadem glittering on her forehead. It was a wonder Mary hadn’t noticed her until now. She glanced down at herself, the shapeless navy dress hanging off her thin frame, the un-manicured fingernails and her un-curled hair.</p><p>God, she thought. How did anyone not feel drab and utterly unmemorable around this woman?</p><p>“Forgive me, Hélène,” Mary said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”</p><p>Hélène’s lips twisted into a charming moue. “Quaint, isn’t it? <em>Paysan, disons</em>. I’m not all that used to peasants and farms and all that sort of thing. But I suppose you are, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Mary murmured. Close now, she could smell the wine on Hélène’s breath.</p><p>“It’s really <em>such </em>a surprise to see you out and about. We were beginning to think you’d run off to join the convent.”</p><p>Mary made herself smile, even as she felt a brief sting of insult. Hélène hadn’t meant to offend, she told herself. It wasn’t in her to be anything but perfectly sweet. “I wouldn’t dream of missing tonight.”</p><p>“Of course, of course. You’ll forgive me for stealing Tolya from you, won’t you? I miss him terribly when he’s away. You know how it is with brothers.”</p><p>Mary found herself nodding without thought. She didn’t know how to say <em>I hadn’t noticed he had gone away, he would have to pay attention to me for that</em>. She didn’t want to either. Hélène smiled, just as remarkably charming and unflappable as ever, as if not a thing in the world was amiss.</p><p>“I’ve always loved weddings,” she went on, running one of the diamonds on her necklace between her fingers. “It’s more fun when it’s your own, though.”</p><p>Mary frowned. “Yes, of course.”</p><p>“Of course, it’s quite different from married life,” she continued, with a knowing smile. “Isn’t it?”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Oh, don’t listen to me.” She stroked one satin-gloved hand down Mary’s arm. “I’m sure you and Tolya are perfectly happy together.”</p><p>Mary’s heart gave a dismayed thud. Did Hélène know? How much had Anatole told her? Was this mockery? It was impossible to say.</p><p>“I’ll tell you what,” said Hélène, “I’m leaving for Petersburg next week, and I think it would be a grand little adventure if you two came and stayed with me for a while. It’s a lovely city for young couples. Romantic, I’ve always thought. And you really should get out more often, <em>chérie</em>. You’ll get bored to death dithering out in the country.”</p><p>“Oh,” she said. “It’s very kind of you, Hélène, really, but, I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly, what with how my father…”</p><p>Mary trailed off. Boris Drubetskoy had come along with an expectant look on his face. Hélène smiled as he offered her a glass of champagne, then bowed to kiss her hand. A respectful gesture for a married woman of high society. There should have been nothing indecent in it.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>Hélène curled her fingers in the crook of Boris’s arm. “Go find a handsome boy to dance with, <em>mon minou</em>,” she said to Mary over her shoulder. “You should be enjoying yourself.”</p><p>Mary stammered, but they were gone before she could say anything.</p><p>A bitter taste curled itself in her mouth. The orchestra began another waltz. She lingered there for a minute, hesitant to go back inside to the noise and the clamour, as the cold raised gooseflesh along the backs of her arms and made her shiver. In the back of her mind there rose the unwanted feeling she had just witnessed something deeply wrong.</p><p>Better not to think of it, she decided. This wasn’t the night to dwell on Hélène’s affairs.</p><p>And with that, Mary trudged back into the house.</p><p>Pierre was sitting alone at a table in the corner of the room, nursing a glass of wine with an odd drunken list to his posture. Moscow had not been kind to him. He’d put on weight and let his hair grow longer than was proper, and there was an old tea stain on the collar of his shirt. The buttons of his waistcoat were straining at his belly. He looked ill, unhappier than she’d had ever seen him before.</p><p>Mary sat beside him. “Pyotr Kirillovich?”</p><p>Pierre startled, as if suddenly shaken awake. The wine went sloshing around his glass and threatened to spill. “Oh!” he gasped, a hand on his heart. “Oh, dear Princess, forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”</p><p>He wiped his mouth on his serviette, catching a few cake crumbs and a blot of burgundy, then leaned over to press a clumsy kiss to her cheek. The stink of spirits on his breath nearly knocked her flat.</p><p>“It’s nice to see you again,” she said.</p><p>“You’re looking well.”</p><p>It was generous of him. She’d made an effort, she really had, even put a bit of makeup on and had Amélie do her hair, but after her encounter with Hélène, she felt even dowdier and plainer than ever.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Pierre met her gaze, properly this time. His eyes were bloodshot, lined with dark smudges, and there was a spot of jaundice above his lip. He didn’t seem to expect her to return the compliment. Mary was grateful—it would’ve only made a liar out of her.</p><p>“It was a lovely ceremony,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve set foot in a church since my own wedding.”</p><p>Mary pursed her lips. Most people would’ve known to keep that sort of thing to themselves. “I find the church brings me peace. It’s good to attend if you’re able.”</p><p>“It’s still all very strange to me, to tell you the truth,” said Pierre. “I find I can’t quite wrap my head around the language.”</p><p>Mary knew Pierre was hardly the devout sort, if he even believed at all. She doubted he would’ve been able to so much as stumble his way through the Lord’s Prayer. That was how they brought their boys up in Paris, her father had told her—libertine, careless, and ignorant to the ways of the Church.</p><p>“This might be strange to say,” Pierre said, as if hurrying out a thought before he could forget it, “but I never thought I’d see Andrei smile like that again.”</p><p>Without meaning it, Mary’s fingers had found the fabric of her skirt and begun to twist in it tightly. She was meant to be happy, she told herself, even if it was only for tonight. She’d let her jealousy almost ruin things already. But it still burned, raw and searing, a sharp and terrible ache in her chest that deepened whenever she looked at them. Their happiness felt like salt in an open wound.</p><p>“I didn’t either,” she whispered.</p><p>Pierre’s expression softened. There was a strange mist over his eyes. He moved his hand, as if to place it atop hers, then halted himself.</p><p>“I don’t believe I’ve said hello to your father yet,” he said.</p><p>“He didn’t come tonight,” Mary said. “He’s been feeling very poorly.”</p><p>It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. Besides the usual aches and pains that came with his age, Prince Bolkonsky had been stricken with a vicious head cold, which had put him in something of a mood. <em>I said I’d allow the match, and I’ve held my end of that bargain</em>, he’d shouted at her from the doorway of his study, <em>but I’ll be damned if I have to watch your brother wed that little fool.</em></p><p>“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pierre said. “I wish him the best of health.”</p><p>“I’ll pass along the sentiment,” Mary said, without meaning it.</p><p>Pierre gave a cursory nod of acknowledgement, the barest hint of a smile, then reached for the wine bottle to top up his glass. His hand shook as he held it. Mary reached over to steady his wrist before anything could spill.</p><p>“You’re looking a little lonely this evening,” she said.</p><p>Pierre laughed mirthlessly and traced the rim of the glass with one clumsy finger. “Nonsense. I’m joined by my wife, as you can see.”</p><p>He nodded to the other side of the ballroom, where Hélène was being attended to by a circle of handsome men in military uniforms, Boris at the head of them, with gleaming epaulettes and medals pinned to their chests.</p><p>Pierre’s fingers were tight around his wine glass. There was longing in his eyes as he watched her, and beneath it, unsettlingly, anger. Mary thought again of Captain Dolokhov. Dear bewildered and awkward Pierre, shooting a man from forty paces away. Could that really have been him? This sad, withering man sat beside her now? It was unfathomable. She was too afraid to ask.</p><p>“How have you been enjoying Moscow?” she offered instead.</p><p>“Oh, there’s nothing in it to enjoy, Princess,” said Pierre. “Not really. Unless it’s the drink you care for. It’s all sad old men sitting around tables and talking about nothing important.”</p><p>“Oh,” she said. “That’s a pity.”</p><p>“It is. How is your husband?” he asked.</p><p>Mary forced a tight smile that didn’t reach quite as far as it should have. Anatole was the last person she wanted to think of tonight. But it was difficult not to. She could’ve picked him out of a crowd of a thousand by that silvery head of his. She took another surreptitious look at him, lounging on a worn chaise, when she was sure he couldn’t see her. He wore a navy jacket that tapered down to his narrow waist and slim-fitting white trousers. The flush of champagne warmed his face.</p><p>He was beautiful, just as he always was. And just as unapproachable as ever.</p><p>Mary lowered her gaze. For the past few weeks, she’d been troubled by sinful dreams of him, like the Devil himself was whispering thoughts into her ear. Everything about him felt overwhelming, even in fantasy—the scent of his cologne, the feel of his skin, the warmth of his arms.</p><p>It was driving her to sheer depravity. The other morning, she’d woken with her hand between her legs. After, burning with shame and mortification at her own wickedness, she’d scrubbed her skin raw until her knuckles broke and bled. All that day and for the entire carriage ride to Otradnoe, she’d been unable to look Anatole in the eye, afraid he would somehow realize what she’d been thinking of, afraid he’d be disgusted by her.</p><p>“Well,” she said tightly.</p><p>Pierre looked unconvinced. “Are you alright?”</p><p>Mary sighed and looked down at her hands, worrying at a hangnail on her thumb. Was there really any point in denying it? Pierre, of all people, had little room to judge her. He would understand.</p><p>“Things have been difficult,” she said.</p><p>Pierre furrowed his heavy brow. He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “He isn’t cruel to you, is he?”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>Pierre swallowed. His face went ruddy. “Forgive me for prying, it’s only…I only ask because I worry. Has—has he ever laid a hand on you?”</p><p>Mary blinked, and for a moment, didn’t respond. It occurred to her what Pierre had just asked. She gaped in shock, then horror.</p><p>“No, Pierre.” She shook her head intently and patted his hand. “No, never. Nothing at all like that.”</p><p>Pierre sighed in evident relief, blushing redder still.</p><p>“You shouldn’t worry yourself with me. He mostly ignores me, truth be told.”</p><p>Pierre set aside his wine glass, took off his spectacles, and began to polish them on the hem of his shirt. If he’d looked miserable before, he was closer to despondent now. It saddened her, perhaps more than it should have, to see someone so warm-hearted and kind reduced to this.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how it feels. Someone gives you a minute of their attention and you think you’re in love.” He gave an aimless wave with one hand, then let it drop heavily to his thigh. “Well, what can you expect?”</p><p>Mary pressed her lips together tightly. “I thought he loved me,” she said quietly. “Honestly, I think I was so lonely I would’ve married anyone.”</p><p>“That’s how they get you,” Pierre said. “I would’ve fetched the moon for Hélène if she’d asked me to. And I could have sworn she’d do the same for me.” He laughed caustically, gripping his glass tightly. “She’s quite the actress, I’ll give her that. She has all of Moscow too wrapped around her finger for anyone to admit what a slut she is.”</p><p>At the word <em>slut</em>, Mary flinched. At the same moment, Hélène threw her head back in laughter, one hand resting on Boris Drubetskoy’s chest.</p><p>Pierre’s expression darkened. Mary wondered if he had looked at Dolokhov that way, with that same resentment and misery and self-loathing she saw in him now.</p><p>“You see?” he said. “What am I to her? Nothing at all. If I was lying in the street bleeding out, she’d only stop to spit on me. They’re snakes, that whole family.”</p><p>“I don’t speak poorly of my spouse,” she said sharply.</p><p>“Perhaps you should. If he’s anything like he was in Petersburg…”</p><p>Mary’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. “What?” she said.</p><p>Pierre flushed. He seemed to realize he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “Never mind that now.”</p><p>She wanted to press him for more, but Nikolushka had come running along, shouting, “Tante, tante!”</p><p>Mary lifted him under the arms and seated him in her lap. His cravat had come untucked, his curls were hopelessly ruffled, and there was frosting in the corner of his mouth. She wiped away the frosting with her serviette, clucking as he squirmed in her arms.</p><p>“Have you been enjoying yourself, Coco?” she asked.</p><p>“Papa gave me cake!”</p><p>“Cake!” she exclaimed. “You lucky boy. Won’t you say hello to Count Bezukhov?”</p><p>Nikolushka grew shy. He twisted around to hide his face in Mary’s shoulder. “<em>Bonjour</em>, Count Bezukhov,” he murmured.</p><p>The corner of Mary’s mouth twitched into an unwitting smile. She felt her chest swell in adoration. “What do we say when it’s late?”</p><p>“<em>Bonsoir</em>.”</p><p>“Hello, Nikolai Andreyevich,” said Pierre, in a soft voice. “You’ve gotten tall, haven’t you? I remember the last time I saw you, you were still swaddled in your papa’s arms.”</p><p>Mary felt her throat tighten. “He’ll be leaving for Moscow to live with his father soon.”</p><p>Pierre looked surprised, then seemed to register her sadness. His expression wilted.</p><p>The tears were welling again, hot and salty. A sob threatened to rise in her throat. She pulled Nikolushka closer, tighter against her chest. She’d begged Andrei to let her keep him, though the decision and arrangement had already long since been made, wept and pleaded on her knees like some pathetic wretch until she disgusted herself.</p><p>But in the end, he wasn’t her child to keep. He never had been.</p><p>“I’ll miss him terribly,” she said. She gave Nikolushka a little squeeze around the middle. “But he’ll be so happy in the big fancy city.” She tipped his chin up and lowered her face to his to kiss his forehead. “And I know he won’t miss his French lessons at all.”</p><p>Nikolushka wrinkled his nose and laughed. He was fidgeting again, bristling with childish excitement, almost bouncing.</p><p>“Go dance with your papa,” Mary said, stroking his curls. “This is a happy day.”</p><p>Nikolushka gave her cheek a frosting-sticky kiss, then wriggled his way out of her lap and ran off to join the dancers. Mary watched, her heart weighing heavily in her chest, as Natasha bent low to clutch Nikolushka’s hands and spin him, and Andrei lifted him into his arms.</p><p>She regretted it now, every time he had ever made her lose her patience and raise her voice, every time she had ever sent him to bed without supper, every bit of anger and frustration she had ever felt towards him.</p><p>“You know, I’ve always thought you’d make a wonderful mother,” Pierre said.</p><p>Mary bit her lip and told herself not to cry, but it hurt now more than it ever had. She prayed, dutifully, compulsively, every night over her icon of the Virgin Mary, that Anatole might have a change of heart and give her a child. A year had come and gone, and she was no closer to having a baby of her own. It was stupid of her to ever have hoped. Stupid of her to still be hopeful, even now.</p><p>She dabbed at her eyes with her serviette, wiping away the tears before they could fall. Pierre frowned, realizing his mistake, and gently laid one enormous bear-like hand on her shoulder.</p><p>“Please, forgive me,” he said, in a low voice, “I didn’t mean to upset—”</p><p>“No, it’s alright,” said Mary. She wiped the tears away quickly with the side of her hand.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be.”</p><p>“It’s a shame,” Pierre said, sighing. “I understand how you feel.”</p><p>“There’s still hope for you yet.”</p><p>“No,” he said, a little emptily. “I really don’t think so. My wife’s of the opinion you’d have to be a fool to want children.”</p><p>Mary frowned. There was something horribly unnatural and wrong in it, a woman who rejected motherhood. She looked at Hélène again. Flaunting her body like some Jezebel.</p><p>“My own fault for it, I suppose,” Pierre said with a bitter sigh. “I should’ve known better.”</p><p>There came a great roar of laughter and delight from the crowd. Someone had taken out a guitar and begun to strum a peasant folk song on its strings. The crowd began lining up for the kamarinskaya. Mary noticed Nikolai sitting in the corner, shoulder-to-shoulder with a pretty redheaded girl. Natasha, already barefoot, was coaxing Andrei and Nikolushka out of their shoes.</p><p>Pierre reached for another drink. “Well,” he said, “we must be happy for them, mustn’t we? It’s a miracle if you can find any bit of happiness in this world.”</p><p>Mary nodded. “Yes, of course.”</p><p>They turned their eyes back to the dancers. Whether Anatole had disappeared somewhere or if Mary simply hadn’t paid him any attention was anyone’s guess. She was too absorbed in Natasha and Andrei’s happiness to think of him.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An unpleasant discovery.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi team!</p><p>Sorry sorry sorry for the delay in churning this out! Every imaginable delay hit us, from school, to work, to colds, to personal emergencies. But it's finally here and we hope you enjoy! We love comments and kudos with all of our wee lil hearts, and we'd be super grateful if you left us one. </p><p>We hope you guys have happy holidays and a great start to 2021!</p><p>A minor warning for a very brief depiction of sexual content and violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Without Nikolushka, the Bald Hills seemed colder and emptier and lonelier than ever before. Mary missed him more than she’d ever thought one person could miss another. Some days she thought she heard his little footsteps pattering down the corridor; others, she lingered in the nursery, clutching his blanket and breathing in the remnants of his scent, remembering the last kiss on the cheek he’d given her before they parted. It felt as though a part of her had been hollowed out, leaving behind an empty spot in her chest that was so cold it burned.</p><p>Even Prince Bolkonsky seemed out of sorts. His head cold had lingered a few weeks longer than it normally would have. His mood blackened at the slightest turn, and he took to locking himself in his study, busying himself with his lathe, and refusing any visitors to the house.</p><p>Mary hardly knew what to do with herself. The days blended into each other in a grey haze, each longer than the last. She did her chores and lessons dutifully, went to church on Sundays, wrote letters to Julie and Andrei and Natasha that she never got around to sending, and bore her father’s insults in silence. Suffering was what tempered the soul, she told herself, a saying she’d read many years ago that she’d repeated to herself ever since.</p><p>But when it came to the matter of Anatole, she found her patience wearing thin.</p><p>If he had had the decency to be a boor to her, it would have made her less guilty for resenting him. Instead he came and went as he pleased, stopped in at dinner or breakfast every now and then, always with unfailing politeness and that usual jaunt in his step. There was the occasional brush of his hand against hers, a pleasant inquiry about her day, or a chaste kiss on the cheek that left her burning, aching, unfulfilled, but never anything more. Never anything she wanted.</p><p>“Give it time, Marie,” Amélie would say, whenever she found her in one of her hopeless dreary moods. “I’m sure it’s only honeymoon nerves. He’s still just getting his bearings.”</p><p>And Mary would bite her tongue, remembering the awful things Anatole had said to her, the way he’d looked at her, and the cold shock of rejection would settle again as a heavy lump in her throat. A woman as beautiful as Amélie would never understand. These days, whenever Mary caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she despaired a little more.</p><p>There was no hope of being loved, that much she knew now. But love wasn’t all that mattered, really, in the grand scheme of things. There was something to be said for a man’s sense of duty, and perhaps something left to salvage. And desperate times called for desperate, miserable, pathetic measures.</p><p>Like a soldier marching off to battle, Mary drummed up what little courage was left in her, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the drawing room.</p><p>Anatole was sprawled out on a chaise with one foot up on the armrest, his head back and his eyes closed, absently plucking at the strings of his violin. The bow had been discarded on the floor a few feet away. With the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his hair perfectly tousled, he looked effortlessly, infuriatingly beautiful, like some Renaissance painting of Apollo.</p><p>Mary wrung her hands together. “Anatole Vasilyevich,” she said, and winced at the patronym, then at the uncertainty in her voice.</p><p>The plucking stopped. “Hm?”</p><p>“If I could have a word with you. Just for a minute. Please.”</p><p>Without bothering to sit up properly or straighten his clothes, Anatole set his violin aside. “Of course.”</p><p>Mary quailed under the weight of those wide blue eyes. Heat spread across her cheeks, over the tops of her ears and down the back of her neck. She couldn’t look him in the face any more than she could have looked at the sun with her eyes wide open. It was unsettling, having that smile fixed on you. It made her feel like an insect pinned under a sheet of glass. Like he could see right through her.</p><p>Dear God, she thought. Why on Earth had she thought this was a good idea? What was there to say? That she was miserable? That she wished they’d never met? That he had ruined her life, and she was close to loathing him for it?</p><p>That she still wanted him with every fibre of her being?</p><p>Mary forced herself to meet his gaze. She’d been wise to keep her distance. Any closer, and she would have scurried off like a frightened little mouse.</p><p>“You have lived in this house for a year,” she said, “and in that time not once have you fulfilled any of your marital duties.”</p><p>Anatole’s smile didn’t exactly falter, but his brow furrowed in bemusement. “I beg your pardon?”</p><p>Mary almost fled then. It would’ve been easier, simpler, to drop the whole matter and apologize and pretend she hadn’t said a thing at all. And nothing would change, and everything would carry on just as it had before, and she would be miserable and lonely as ever. </p><p>No, she decided. Not this time. She refused to roll over like a kicked dog. She was a Bolkonsky, for God’s sake. Like Andrei and her father, who wouldn’t have entertained this nonsense for a moment. There was more to her than cowardice.</p><p>“I’ve been very patient with you,” she said. “I haven’t hounded you. I’ve respected your discomfort and refrained from troubling you with…with these matters. I’d hoped that by now you might have come around to me. I don’t expect you to love me, but I can’t continue like this forever.” She hesitated there for a bit and looked down at her hands, hoping she might find some strength there. Her face grew hotter, her voice feebler. “I know what my rights are as a wife and I want what I’m due.”</p><p>Anatole laughed softly. It should have been mocking, that laugh. But it sounded, more than anything, like childlike amusement. “And what is that, exactly?”</p><p>Mary glowered. Was he dense, or only trying to tease? It could’ve easily been one or the other.</p><p>It was humiliating to say it out loud. “I want to be properly married.”</p><p>“<em>Chérie</em>,” he said, pushing himself upright, “I’m flattered, truly, but I believe I’ve made my feelings on this matter quite clear.”</p><p>Mary laced her fingers together. “I understand you have your reservations, and this arrangement is less than ideal for us both, but you did take an oath, and with that there come certain obligations. You were happy enough to accept the dowry, which means you’ve benefited from this, to some extent. And since you’ve refused to consent to annulling the marriage, I would ask in return that you—”</p><p>Anatole began to laugh again. Mary cut herself off, indignant.</p><p>“What?” she said, and stopped herself just short of snapping.</p><p>“If it’s the dowry you’re concerned with, you’ll have to take it up with my father. But I must warn you, I expect he’s spent the lot of it already.”</p><p>“Is that all this is about to you?” she said, unable to hide the hurt in her words. “The money?”</p><p>“And you married me for my looks, and now you’re free to look as you please. I’d say that’s as fair a deal as any.”</p><p>“I did <em>not</em>—”</p><p>“I don’t fault you for it at all, you’re allowed to want.”</p><p>“What I want is to be a normal wife!” she cried. “I want to be loved! I want <em>children</em>!”</p><p>Anatole looked affronted. “Well, that’s not my fault!”</p><p>“Of course it is!”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear any more of this,” he said, sharply now. “We’ve already been over this. If you’re only going to pester me, I’d rather be left alone.”</p><p>Then he went back to his violin with a careless air, as if Mary weren’t still standing before him, growing more incensed with every second.</p><p>“You’ve some nerve to take that tone with me when you treat me like some sort of stranger,” she said. “After all of the trouble you’ve put me through, I should—”</p><p>At that, Anatole rolled his eyes, glaring at her. “What’ll you do, send me to bed before supper? Spank me? What gives you the right to order me about like a child?”</p><p>Mary sputtered and flushed indignantly. God only knew how blotchy and red her face must have looked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know herself. “If you didn’t want to be my husband, you shouldn’t have married me.”</p><p>“If I hadn’t married you, who would have?”</p><p>Mary closed her mouth.</p><p>Anatole turned away from her and returned his attention to the violin. Mary felt her heart sink and grow cold. He had dismissed her. Again.</p><p>She knelt, feeling sad and ridiculous, and turned her face up to him with a plaintive martyr’s expression. It was pathetic of her, laughable to the point of pity. But pity was what she needed, now more than ever.</p><p>“I know I’m only plain,” she said, in a shaking tearful voice, “and I’m dull, and I know I’m not nearly as beautiful or interesting as other women. But don’t I deserve happiness? Don’t I deserve to be loved? Is there no way I could ever win your affection?”</p><p>Anatole sighed.</p><p>“Please,” she said. “I don’t expect your love. I know you can’t give it to me. But I want a child with all that I am.” She grasped his hand and brought it under her chin. “Please, if you have any kindness or pity in your heart, you’ll give me this. And I’ll never ask anything of you again for the rest of my life, I swear it.”</p><p>Gently, he turned her chin up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Mary startled at his touch. It felt like a miracle. A little shiver went through her.</p><p>“You really are terribly lonely here, aren’t you?” he said quietly.</p><p>Mary nodded. She could smell his cologne, hear the gentle sound of his breathing.</p><p>Anatole’s expression softened. His hand found her cheek. Without thinking, Mary let herself lean into it. His face was very close to hers. It occurred to her that if she’d leaned up just a bit, she could have kissed him.</p><p>“You do deserve happiness,” he said. “So why should you let me get in the way of it?”</p><p>Mary frowned. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>He smiled magnanimously, as if having done some great act of charity, and gave her hand a squeeze. “I think you should pay a visit to Moscow and find yourself a lover. Someone who makes you feel desired. There’s not many women who wouldn’t have done the same in your position by now. You’ll be so much happier in good company, Marie. And I won’t say a thing about it, of course. You won’t have to worry about your reputation.”</p><p>Mary sputtered and stammered, unable to form words. She flushed in outrage and humiliation. Her eyes burned with tears. She was used to ridicule—her father had made certain of that, from the moment she was born. It was a familiar sort of shame by now, more a dull ache than a sting. But she hadn’t expected it of Anatole.</p><p>“Don’t,” she said. She shook her head, drawing away from him, humiliatingly close to crying. “Don’t taunt me like this. It’s cruel.”</p><p>Anatole furrowed his brow in bewilderment. Mary’s heart dropped even further. He hadn’t been mocking at all, she realized. He’d meant it in earnest.</p><p>This, somehow, was worse.</p><p>The inside of Mary’s head thundered. Adultery, she thought, and almost recoiled in disgust. The gall of it. The absolute nerve. What sort of a man was he, to suggest it? What sort of a woman did he take her for, to think she would want it?</p><p>Mary pushed herself to her feet and stepped back from Anatole, who was reaching after her hand with an almost apologetic expression.</p><p>“Marie,” he began, “I really do think if you considered it—”</p><p>Mary didn’t want to hear it. She snatched her arm back, not wanting him to touch her. “Am I really so repulsive to you?” she whispered. “Does the thought of me really disgust you so much?”</p><p>Anatole seemed at a loss for words. That was answer enough for Mary. She tore from the room like a wounded animal and slammed the door hard, harder than she’d meant to, so hard it rattled warningly in its frame.</p><p>Damn him, she thought, as she stormed off down the corridor to her room with heavy, angry footfalls. Damn him and his cruel suggestions twisted up in that silver tongue. Damn that soft voice, those warm hands, and that handsome face. And damn him for being happy when she was so miserable.</p><p>Despondent, horrendously insulted, and most of all humiliated, she let herself slide to the floor, drawing her knees up under her chin, and wept into her hands. It was a small mercy her father wasn’t here to see her in this state. <em>Only fools and infants cry, Marya</em>, she imagined him saying, with a sneer. <em>And I thought I’d raised you to be neither</em>.</p><p>“Marie? What’s the matter?” came a woman’s voice.</p><p>Mary cringed. No, she thought. Not her. Not now. At the moment, there was a wealth of other people she would’ve rather seen than Amélie. Pierre. Julie. Anna Pavlovna. Not perfect, lovely Amélie, who could make Mary feel plain and dull like no one else without even trying.</p><p>Amélie settled onto the floor beside Mary. “I heard shouting,” she murmured.</p><p>Mary furiously wiped at her eyes and nose. She felt Amélie’s hands on her shoulders, then one on her cheek, the other beneath her chin.</p><p>“Has your father said something again?” Amélie asked. “You can’t let it get to you, pet. He’s been in such a mood with everyone lately, I’m sure—”</p><p>“It’s not him,” Mary said wetly.</p><p>Amélie’s face fell in understanding. “Oh, Marie,” she sighed.</p><p>A sob caught Mary mid-breath. There was no holding things back after that. Amélie let Mary lay her head in her lap and cry, let Mary’s tears wet her skirts, murmuring sweet nothings to her in French. It wasn’t the first time Amélie had held her this way. She had been there through it all, quietly offered a shoulder to cry on and never asked for a thing in return, through Bolkonsky’s fits, and Andrei’s unkind words, and Lise’s death. And Mary had dared to resent her. She didn’t deserve this kindness.</p><p>“There now,” Amélie murmured, stroking one hand through Mary’s hair, which she had unravelled from its braid. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”</p><p>Mary curled one hand in the fabric Amélie’s skirt. The tears had fallen down her face sideways. “He was awful, Meli,” she whispered. “I can’t see him again.”</p><p>“I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you.”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>Mary lowered her voice in shame, till it was little more than a whisper. “He wants me to seek out other men.”</p><p>Amélie’s hand stopped moving. “What?”</p><p>Mary pushed herself upright to look Amélie in the face. “He said that he wants me to seek out other men,” she repeated, more firmly. “He would rather I commit a mortal sin than lie with me.”</p><p>Amélie’s pretty face crumpled. She seemed close to tears herself.</p><p>Mary sniffled, drawing away from her. “I don’t know why I bothered trying to fix this. Nothing’s changed.”</p><p>“But you can’t just give up like that!” said Amélie. “Nothing will change unless you work for it. If you want him, you have to put the effort in. I’ll help you. We could curl your hair, put on a bit of makeup, maybe find you a nice dress—”</p><p>“What good is it?” Mary exploded. “For God’s sake, Amélie, how stupid can you be?  I’ve tried everything I can and it’s never been enough. It won’t ever be enough. <em>Look </em>at me. How could anyone ever want someone like me?”</p><p>Amélie shrank back, a hand on her chest, a hurt look on her face, as if Mary’s words had scalded her. Mary dissolved into childlike tears. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she wept. “Forgive me, Meli, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Amélie sighed and gathered Mary, contrite and mortified, in her arms. Mary allowed her to dry her tears with her handkerchief and brush the hair back from her face. Gradually, Mary’s breathing evened out, punctuated here and there with little sniffles and shuddery sighs.</p><p>“What you need,” Amélie said gently, cradling Mary’s head against her shoulder, “is to leave this house for an hour or so and get a bit of fresh air. It won’t do you any good to sit in the dark and fret.”</p><p>Mary nodded. A hiccup leapt out of her. “You’re right.”</p><p>“I know I am.”</p><p>A comfortable silence hung between them. Amélie straightened her skirts and began to twist Mary’s hair back into a braid. Her scent was faintly floral, familiar and soothing. For how miserable she’d been, Mary could have sat here, lying against Amélie’s side like this all day and night.</p><p>“You know, Meli,” she murmured after a while, touching Amélie’s hand fondly, “sometimes I think I should’ve married you instead.”</p><p>Amélie laughed, a beautiful ringing sound, like chiming bells, and pressed her cheek to Mary’s. “I should think we’d make a very handsome couple.”</p><p>At that, Mary finally smiled. Amélie kissed her forehead softly, like an angel. Mary’s heart swelled in gratitude. Perhaps she wasn’t as alone here as she’d thought.</p><p>“It’ll be alright, Marie,” Amélie said. “Things work out in the end, you’ll see.”</p>
<hr/><p>There was a certain comforting warmth that always came after making Confession, like the first breath of spring breaking through the winter frost. Prince Bolkonsky had always turned his nose up at it. A weak religion, he’d called it, one made for weak people. Crude peasant rituals. Fiddling with incense and icons and saying prayers to thin air. Not that he would have known.</p><p><em>If there is a God, Marya</em>, he would grumble, <em>and if He is fussed enough to listen to our affairs, I’m sure the last thing He wants to hear is your whinging</em>.</p><p>Neglected as her spiritual education had been, Mary had found faith on her own. It was her escape, her reprieve from the world, a quiet sort of rebellion against her father. He could order her around like a dog, insult and abuse her to the point of tears, but this much, he couldn’t take from her. This much was hers alone.</p><p>The church was a small wooden building in the village, derelict and weather-beaten. It was distinctly shabby compared to the glittering cathedrals in Moscow and Petersburg. But that was alright. It suited Mary just fine, like an old well-worn pair of shoes. You didn’t need grandeur to feel the presence of God.</p><p>She waited in the very last pew until she was called up to the lectern, before the iconostasis and the painted face of Christ, where the priest sat. He was an old man, older even than her father, with a kind weathered face and bright blue eyes beneath his heavy brow. Mary had known him ever since she was a child and was immensely fond of him. Penitent, calmer now than before, she bowed her head, crossed herself, and read her admonition from the Gospel. It was a comforting ritual, one she could have recited in her sleep.</p><p>The priest listened patiently, nodding every now and then, as she confessed her transgressions. She held back nothing. Wrath, impatience, ill temper, envy, and—here, she flushed, lowering her face and her voice—lust. But as soon as the words had passed her lips, she was ashamed of herself no longer. There was no shame in sharing this with her Heavenly Father, in knowing all would be forgiven once she asked for it. She said her prayers as she was instructed, thanked the priest for his time, and took her leave.</p><p>After, as she stood on the steps of the church, her head and hands tucked into her furs, waiting for the footman to open the carriage door, Mary felt a smile forming on her face. The oppressive weight hanging in her chest had lightened. Amélie had been right. Everything seemed less terrible now.</p><p>By the time she returned, the sky was grey with storm clouds, and an early evening chill had settled in. The house felt strangely still. From its spot above the fireplace, the clock tolled half past the hour. It would be dinnertime soon. She would have to face her father, and worse, Anatole.</p><p>Mary collected herself, remembering the priest’s admonition. She would apologize to Anatole, she decided. Apologize, and God willing, be apologized to in return. He would recognize her humility and grace and be moved to gratitude, maybe even kindness. Surely he would. And who knew what might develop from that.</p><p>Mary had just hung up her coat and tugged off her gloves when in from the drawing room floated the unmistakable sound of voices. Silent as a ghost, she followed them down the hall. At the door, she hesitated. There was Anatole’s soft tenor, and beneath it, like the cellos glissading in under the reeds in an orchestra, Amélie’s lilting alto. Quiet hid the shape of words, but not their tone. Mary listened closer. Tenderness. Laughter.</p><p>Furrowing her brow, Mary peered into the room. An uncorked bottle of champagne was dripping foam onto the table. In the glass doors of the credenza against the opposite wall, she saw a moving reflection and a flash of gold.</p><p>Mary adjusted her vision. When she realized what it was she was looking at, all the air rushed out of her at once.</p><p>Anatole and Amélie were twisted together in a passionate embrace, their arms wrapped around each other. It was impossible to say where one ended and the other began. There were soft moans, gasps, laughter in between. Anatole closed his eyes as he kissed Amélie, bringing a hand up to stroke through her curls, which had been untied from their usual chignon.</p><p>Mary knew she shouldn’t have stood there and watched. She should have said something, or screamed, or cried out. Anything to stop the grotesque scene unfolding before her eyes. But instead she stared, unable to tear her gaze away or speak, hardly even breathing, as Amélie bent her head to kiss Anatole’s throat, drawing out a sweet, low moan, and with a few sharp tugs, stripped him of his shirt.</p><p>Something sparked in Mary’s chest, something she’d never felt before, something she didn’t understand, like a match lit behind her ribs. They were moving together again, as beautiful as they were terrible, and horribly captivating. Anatole rolled his hips up to meet Amélie’s, and Amélie kissed him with a fierce sort of insistence and snarled her hands in his hair, pressing herself to him, the way only a wife should have done to her husband, the way Mary had so sorely longed to all this time.</p><p>Amélie climbed astride his lap, rucking up her skirts as she went, nails raking down his bare chest. Anatole laughed. His slim clever fingers made quick work of the strings of her corset. “Fiery little thing today, aren’t you?” he said.</p><p>Amélie smiled and kissed him again. Her hands roamed greedily over his arms and chest. “Always for you.”</p><p>Anatole took her in, his eyes wide and adoring, and let her push him down until his back went flat against the chaise. “The things I’m going to do to you…”</p><p>As if in response, Amélie did <em>something</em>—what it was exactly Mary couldn’t say—that made Anatole sigh and tip his head back. </p><p>Then, in the glass, his eyes met Mary’s.</p><p>“Marie,” he gasped.</p><p>The effect was instantaneous. She might just as well have fired a pistol clear through the room. Anatole and Amélie leapt apart from each other as if burned. Amélie tumbled to the floor, knocking into the table on the way. The champagne went down with her and spilled across the rug.</p><p>Mary’s head swam with a fog thick as sleep. “What is this?” she said to Amélie, still not quite understanding, not wanting to.</p><p>Amélie began to stammer something out. All the colour had left her face. A dark purple mark had bloomed across her throat.</p><p>Mary caught her breath at last. She became aware that she was trembling. Her heart was beating so fast it frightened her. “What is this, Meli?”</p><p>“It’s not my fault,” cried Amélie. “He seduced me, I swear. He told me he loved me.”</p><p>“That isn’t true,” Anatole cut in. “It wasn’t like that.”</p><p>Amélie spoke over him at the same time, her voice shaking with tears. “He—he said he’d marry me and bring me back to Paris—I’ve been so miserable here, Marie, I couldn’t—”</p><p>“Paris?” Mary said.</p><p>Amélie’s lips parted. She stared, as if it had only just occurred to her what she had said.</p><p>“You wanted to leave?” Mary said. “Is that what you intended? To run off with him and leave me?”</p><p>“Marie,” Anatole broke in, bare-chested, flushed, utterly debauched, “darling, please, this is all just a silly misunderstanding.”</p><p>A hot rush of anger and hurt coursed through Mary. A misunderstanding, he called it. Never before in her life had never seen things as they were quite so clearly.</p><p>“How dare you,” she said. She stepped forwards, into the room, until she towered over Amélie, suddenly gripped by the urge to throttle her. “You vile, loathsome—to betray me like this—my own <em>husband</em>!”</p><p>Amélie’s bottom lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You knew this was the one thing I wanted,” she shouted. “Why would you do this to me? I thought you were my friend. I <em>trusted</em> you! I <em>loved</em> you!”</p><p>Amélie cowered back. Her shoulders hitched with quiet little sobs. It should have been pitiful, the sight of it. But Mary had no pity for her. She no longer recognized her, this woman she had once thought a friend, this woman she had once loved as a sister. She understood now what had driven Pierre to his pistol. At the moment, she could have shot the both of them and not felt a shred of regret for it.</p><p>“Get out,” she said softly.</p><p>Amélie startled, suddenly frantic. “Marie, please—”</p><p>“I said get out!” she screamed.</p><p>Amélie fell silent. Her face took on a look of mortified shame. Crying softly now, she gathered her skirts and hurried out of the room with her head low. The silence that followed was thunderous.</p><p>Mary rounded on Anatole, who was hurriedly straightening his clothes and trying to button up his shirt. There were fresh pink marks on his neck and chest, the imprint of Amélie’s lipstick along his throat.</p><p>Mary felt a flicker of something she didn’t quite recognize in the pit of her stomach. Every inch of her burned. She wasn’t sure where her anger might take her, what it might lead her to do, only that she had never allowed herself to feel it quite so deeply before.</p><p>“Do you hate me?” she said to Anatole.</p><p>Anatole shook his head. “Marie, my darling, I never meant—”</p><p>“Answer the question.” Her voice was low, flat, and horribly cold. Like Andrei’s, she realized.</p><p>His throat hitched as he swallowed. “No. No, of course not.”</p><p>“Then why would you do this? It wasn’t enough to reject me? To humiliate me on my wedding night? In my own house?”</p><p>Pale, wide-eyed, Anatole said nothing. It was maddening. Mary wanted him to say something, anything, if only to have an excuse to scream back at him.</p><p>“She was my only friend here, you know,” she said. “And you had to ruin that.”</p><p>“I never meant—”</p><p>“Do you understand how cruel it is? To toy with a woman’s heart like that? I never forced you to marry me. If you would’ve rather been left alone to enjoy your coarse amusements, you could have stayed in Petersburg.”</p><p>Horror crossed his face.</p><p>“Oh, I’ve heard of the sort of man you are,” she snarled. “I’m not quite the fool you’d like to think I am, Anatole Vasilyevich. My father had the right idea about your family. He told me you were nothing but trouble and I should’ve listened to him.”</p><p>Anatole flinched. He hadn’t expected that of her. Hadn’t expected her to have a spine, or a tongue, or any bit of self-respect. She’d hardly expected it of herself. Mary felt a strange jab of satisfaction. Was this how it felt for her father, she wondered, to wield power over something pathetic and too frightened to bite back?</p><p>“Tell me,” she said, “how long have you been making a disgrace of your marital vows?”</p><p>“It was only this once, I swear—”</p><p>Mary shook her head. He’d told her loved her before. That he’d wanted her. That he would be faithful. There was no trusting a single word that came out of his mouth anymore, however pretty or enticing it sounded.</p><p>“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “You at least owe me the truth.”</p><p>Anatole’s eyes twitched a hair wider. Mary was reminded for a moment of the jackrabbits her father used to take her hunting as a child. “A little after the wedding.”</p><p>It hurt, perhaps more than it should have. All this time, a snake under her roof. She had known, deep down, what he was. And she had allowed him to stay, all for a promise that she had known he never meant to keep. She longed, for a beastly, selfish moment, to hurt him, and hated herself for it.</p><p>“How many have there been?” she asked, not entirely sure why she wanted to know.</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>Mary forced the words out between clenched teeth. “How many other women have you had?”</p><p>“I’m not—I haven’t exactly kept count—”</p><p>She laughed, silencing him. The feel of it was utterly foreign. Like something she’d heard a person do once before and was trying to imitate. “I wish I could say I was surprised. You’d lie with every woman in Russia but your own wife, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>“What does it matter?” he shot back, his voice running high with a nervous edge. “I told you at the beginning of all of this that I didn’t want you. Why should I have to be miserable for your sake?”</p><p>Mary closed her eyes and sighed. She hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but she had always known it was a possibility. She was too hurt, too far gone for anything else now. “Very well,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ll write the church tomorrow and petition for a divorce.”</p><p>“I won’t allow it.”</p><p>“It’s not a matter of what you will or won’t allow. There isn’t a priest alive who wouldn’t grant me separation from an adulterer.”</p><p>A strange animalistic panic came over him, like a wolf realizing its leg is caught in a trap. He grabbed her arm. “No,” he said. “You can’t do this to me. You’ll ruin me. My father will kill—”</p><p>“You’ve done this to yourself,” she said.</p><p>Anatole sat up on his knees. “Please, Marie,” he said. “You’ll find it in your good Christian heart to forgive me. I know you will.”</p><p>Mary was too shocked to protest as he pulled her to him, one hand clinging to her skirt, the other still holding her arm.</p><p>“We can forget all of this,” he murmured. The panic melted away into an unnatural calm. “Let me make amends. You still want me, don’t you?”</p><p>Mary faltered. There was a strange urgent pressure building in her chest. Her breath came short and unsteady. “I—”</p><p>Without taking his eyes away from hers, Anatole pressed closer and made his voice low and silvery, like charming a snake. “I’ll give myself to you.” He took her hand and kissed it, the pulse-point of her wrist, up her forearm, rolling up her sleeve as he went and saying in that silken voice between kisses, “If you’ll forgive me. I’m your slave, whatever you desire, anything at all, <em>ma chère</em>, one word and it’s—”</p><p>Mary couldn’t tell what overcame her then. Something dreadful and terrible, something she hardly recognized in herself. She struck Anatole across the face, hard, with every bit of strength and fury she could muster, not caring how much it must have hurt. Anatole didn’t make a sound, not even a gasp. He let his head turn with the blow. An angry red mark rose on his cheekbone where her wedding ring had caught him.</p><p>The air of the room grew cold and stagnant. The pressure in Mary’s chest abated. In its place, she felt a terrible mixture of reproach and disgust and pity rise up in her. It had never occurred to her before that she might ever look down on him with such contempt.</p><p>“No,” she said to him, coldly. “I don’t want you anymore.”</p><p>Anatole sat back on his haunches. He looked as though her slap had knocked his world off-balance. Then he stood, breathing hard, his eyes wide. Mary watched in silence as he buttoned up his shirt, ran a shaking hand through his hair to straighten it, and left.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mary has some matters to attend to.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we really write too goddamn much.</p><p>HEYA PALS! Welcome  to another edition of ~mary is sad and now we are too~</p><p>please note there is a brief reference to parental abuse and physical injury (nothing major or gory)!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anatole didn’t come to dinner that evening. His seat at the table remained empty, and across from his, so did Amélie’s. Maybe they’d had the sense to know it would’ve only angered Mary further to see them. Or perhaps they just didn’t have the nerve to show their faces after what they’d done. It didn’t matter either way, so long as they kept out of sight.</p><p>Against her will, Mary felt the ghost of Anatole’s hand against hers again, remembered those beguiling words he’d spoken to her. A hollow gesture, one intended to manipulate. The thought of it turned her stomach.</p><p>Her dinner sat untouched while Prince Bolkonsky groused about how the rain made his joints ache, the state of the government, Andrei’s continued absence, Natasha’s continued existence, and anything else that could be groused about.</p><p>But Mary wasn’t listening to him. She was too busy looking down at her hands, her palm still ringing from where she had struck Anatole. Had that really been her, she wondered. How was that possible? Had that anger been in her the whole time?</p><p>Did she regret it?</p><p>She wasn’t entirely certain she did.</p><p>“Amélie is late,” Bolkonsky said testily, rapping his fork against the edge of his plate. “Where the hell is that girl?”</p><p>Mary said nothing. There was nothing anyone could say, when he was in a fit of pique like this, that wouldn’t only set him off more. Already, he’d taken such offense to a spot of unwashed grease on his dinner plate that he’d thrown it at the wall.</p><p>“No one respects my time in this house,” he grumbled.</p><p>Mary found herself strangely impassive. She folded her hands under the table, on her lap, and told them to stay put. Her fingers twitched mindlessly.</p><p>The corner of Bolkonsky’s lip turned up in a snarl. “And I take it your husband’s decided not to join us again?” he said. “One would almost think he was avoiding you, Marya.” He took a vicious bite of his cutlet. “Just as well, eh? The damned fop hasn’t contributed an intelligent thought since he arrived. And <em>you </em>get the stupidest look on your face whenever he deigns to come to dinner. Sometimes I think you’ll trap flies in that idiot mouth of yours.”</p><p>Mary’s hands curled into fists, so tight her knuckles went white and her fingers went numb. She was tired of this. The mockery. The insults. Every man she’d ever known had mocked her. Her father. Anatole. Even Andrei had always looked down on her with silent condescension.</p><p>Mary drew her spine straight and raised her chin. Her heart beat faster. In all her life, she had never spoken back to her father, not once. And on any other day, she would have taken it just as quietly and meekly as she always had. But perhaps some of the fear had been rattled out of her.</p><p>“I’m getting a divorce,” she said.</p><p>Bolkonsky dropped his cutlery, shock written across his features. She might just as well have announced her intention to convert to Catholicism. “What’s that, now?”</p><p>“I’m getting a divorce, Papa,” she repeated. “I’m writing to the priest in the morning. I expect the whole matter will be sorted out rather quickly.”</p><p>A crooked and unfamiliar expression spread across his face. Mary recognized it a second later as a smile. He gave a satisfied laugh, almost a chortle, and wagged a finger at her. “It’s about time, I say!” he chuckled. “I daren’t ask on what grounds, but good riddance to the freeloading bastard, may he never darken our doorway again. I’m proud of you. Yes! Proud!”</p><p>Proud. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d uttered that word. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him say it before. A strange fluttery sensation kindled itself in her chest. All her life, she’d striven to impress him, hoping that one day he might look at her with something other than disdain. Now that she finally had, she couldn’t tell yet whether or not she liked it.</p><p>Mary’s lips twitched into an uncertain smile. “Thank you, Papa,” she murmured.</p><p>“Damned important to have a good head on your shoulders! I never thought I’d live to see the day. I say we drink to that.”</p><p>“Oh, no, we needn’t, really—”</p><p>“No, no, I insist!” he said, wagging his finger, and forced a glass of wine into her hand. “It’s not every day a man sees his daughter stand up for herself. I’d been hoping this might happen. Christ, I haven’t been this happy in years!”</p><p>After dinner, there came the business of sorting out the paperwork. Her head humming from the wine in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, Mary gathered a few things and set off for Amélie’s room.</p><p>It was unusual, certainly, and perhaps even unprecedented to have one of the guilty as your second eyewitness. But when it came to matters like this, you had to be pragmatic. There was no doubt in Mary’s mind that Amélie would confess. Because if Amélie wouldn’t give her that slightest scrap of decency, with God as her witness, she would pack the insolent Frenchwoman’s bags herself and throw the lot of them out to the street.</p><p>Mary rapped her knuckles on the door. A sniffly wet voice answered, “Come in.”</p><p>Across the room, past the pink wallpaper and the mirrors and the brocade chaise, Amélie sat up against the headboard and pulled her knees under her chin. She looked an absolute wreck. Mary had never seen her like this before. Despite the hour, she hadn’t changed for bed. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was loose about her shoulders and hopelessly tangled.</p><p>Without a word, Mary set a plate down on Amélie’s dresser. It wasn’t much, really—just a slice of rye bread and salad with dill. Hardly a proper dinner. But Mary wouldn’t have wished going to bed with an empty stomach on her worst enemy.</p><p>“I thought you might be hungry,” she said.</p><p>Amélie looked up at Mary, her eyes wide and dark and tearful, twisting the hem of her petticoat between her hands. “Thank you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “That’s very kind of you, Marie.”</p><p>She made no move to reach for the plate. Perhaps guilt had stolen her appetite.</p><p>“Are you angry with me?” she asked fearfully.</p><p>Mary stared and said nothing. She remembered a thousand little insults she hadn’t understood till now—Amélie’s false smiles, that air of superiority she’d always had about her, her coldness that evening after Anatole had first come to the house. She had never been her friend. Or if she had, that woman was dead and gone.</p><p>But whatever Amélie might have feared, Mary felt no anger anymore. That fire had burnt itself out. There wasn’t enough rage in her to feed something so greedy. This was numb, a deeper duller ache, something cold and heavy that had sunk to the bottom of her stomach. Not the sort of hatred that burned at the touch.</p><p>“Please don’t hate me for this,” Amélie said, as if compelled to fill the silence Mary had let hang. “I couldn’t bear it if you did. It was a mistake, and I didn’t—I—I was <em>jealous </em>of you, Marie. You got to marry your handsome prince and I didn’t know if I’d ever get to marry anyone at all.”</p><p>Her bottom lip trembled. She reached over to touch Mary’s hand, shrinking back as Mary recoiled.</p><p>“All I wanted was someone to love,” she said. “You can’t understand how lonely I was. I had no one.”</p><p><em>You had me</em>, Mary thought emptily. <em>Can’t you see, I’ve been here all along?</em></p><p>Amélie’s voice shook. “I knew he wasn’t happy with you. And then he gave me a bit of attention and I…I got carried away. You know how it feels to want someone that badly.”</p><p>Mary bit her tongue and told herself not to say what she was thinking—<em>well, you’re free to have him now, you’re better suited to him than I ever was.</em> Instead, sharply, covering her hurt with brusqueness, she handed Amélie a pen and paper. Amélie frowned.</p><p>“You’ll confess to your affair,” Mary said. “If you have a shred of remorse in your soul. I won’t stay married to an adulterer.”</p><p>“Marie, please—”</p><p>“I am not arguing with you, Mademoiselle.”</p><p>Amélie’s face became very pale. She nodded, her eyes wide and wet, and sat down at her vanity to write. Mary heard the nib of the pen softly scratching away. Every now and then Amélie would stop to sniffle, wipe her eyes, or chance a discreet look at herself in the mirror, then look back down at the paper in shame. When she had finished, she handed Mary the letter without looking at her.</p><p>Mary let her eyes run over the page, not properly reading it, not wanting to, but catching glimpses and corners of words here and there. <em>Prince Kuragin. Amorous engagement. Adultery.</em></p><p>At the bottom, where Amélie had signed her name in perfect cursive, it read, <em>Amalia Evgenievna Bourienne</em>.</p><p>Amélie drew in a shaky breath. “I know this won’t make up for what I’ve done, but—”</p><p>“It doesn’t,” Mary said. “Nothing will.”</p><p>Amélie seemed on the verge of tears again. Mary knew that it was the Christian thing to forgive. But she was a weak and sinful woman. There were some things that were beyond her.</p><p>Mary folded up the letter and tucked it into her pocket. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and left.</p><p>Anatole’s room wasn’t all that far down the corridor from Amélie’s. Mary almost laughed, despite herself. Of course. She had never realized.</p><p>The grief hung heavy still, but the burden was growing lighter with every step. Breathing felt easier than it had in months. Soon, Anatole would trouble her no longer. She would inform him that the matter was coming to a close, then she would take her leave of him for the last time, and everything would be put to rest. If it meant her own loneliness, well, it was better to be alone than in the company of snakes.</p><p>Mary pushed the door open. It was dark inside.</p><p>“Anatole Vasilyevich,” she called.</p><p>The room remained silent.</p><p>She pulled the curtains open, letting the moonlight filter in. The bed was unmade. The wardrobe was open and empty. Unfolded clothes and papers were strewn haphazardly about the place. There wasn’t a soul in sight.</p><p>Mary’s heart thudded painfully inside her chest. He wasn’t here. Was this some ploy to trick her again? An attempt to torment her, or to get the last laugh?</p><p>He’d known, she realized, and wanted to kick herself for it. He’d known what was coming because she had told him, and now he had run off.</p><p>Her anger flashed back, hotter than before. The <em>bastard</em>, she thought. The devil. How could he. How dare he. After all he had already put her through. She would be damned if she would let him ruin her any more than he already had.</p><p>Her hands shaking in fury, Mary pulled on a heavy wool cloak and an old pair of riding boots and tore through the front hall to the porch. The rain had picked up steadily since dinner. Now, it lashed down in howling torrents.</p><p>Mary pulled her hood low over her forehead to shield her face from the rain. Lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder followed a heartbeat later, a deafening crash that rattled the earth like cannonfire. Looking down, where the rain hadn’t yet washed them away, she saw the unmistakable outline of hoofprints leading down the road and a matching set leading back up the way they’d come.</p><p>Her heart in her throat, she followed the trail to the edge of the woods, where her mare was stomping about in a panic. Whoever had tacked it up had done a shoddy job of it. The reins were dangling, and the saddle had slipped to the side. </p><p>There came another clap of thunder, this one closer than the last. The horse reared up on its hind legs, whinnying as if it had been stung. Mary stepped to the side, taking care to stay in its sightline, caught the reins in one hand, not too quick and not too sharp, and stroked the horse’s nose gently to calm it.</p><p>“You’re alright,” she murmured, more to herself than anything. “Everything’s alright.”</p><p>Mary frowned as she glanced at the path, and back at her horse. There was nothing for it but to go on foot, she decided. The poor thing was already half-wild with fright. And with the mud and rain, it would only have been asking for the mare to get stuck or lose its footing or break a leg.</p><p>She led the horse back towards the stables, un-tacked it, bolted the gate shut, and checked it twice for good measure. Anatole was responsible for this, somehow. There was no doubt in her mind about that. She set off again, even more incensed than before. An adulterer, a runaway, and now a thief. She’d wring his neck, she decided. If he thought he could snub her twice and walk away from it unpunished, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.</p><p>The main road curved through the wood, where the darkness was thickest. Blind but for an arm’s length, Mary hitched up her skirts with one hand and held the lantern out with the other, its light dim and weak in the storm. Beneath her feet the earth shifted, mud-slick, sinking with every step. It clung to the hem of her skirt as she forged ahead.</p><p>On the left bank of the drive, where the melted snow had sunk into the ground in a great sodden slush, the earth sloped steeply downwards. Mary swung the lantern forward through the blinding darkness. Ahead of her, not far before the ground gave way to the river, she saw a man lying in the bulrushes.</p><p>Mary gasped. The lantern fell from her grip and into the mud.</p><p>“Oh my God,” she whispered.</p><p>Mary snatched up the lantern and hurried forwards.</p><p>Anatole’s hair had been plastered down with rain till it was the colour of brass. There was a weeping gash across his cheek, and the back of his coat was filthy with mud and crushed grass. It looked as if he’d tried to drown himself in the river, decided against it halfway through, but was still giving it a second thought.</p><p>“Anatole!” she shouted, over the roar of the wind.</p><p>Anatole startled at the sound of her voice. When he saw her heading down the drive towards him, he sat upright with a dizzy look. Mary heard his breath hitch wetly.</p><p>“Anatole,” she repeated, “what in God’s name are you doing here?”</p><p>He gave a sharp bitter laugh, like the sound of being hit in the gut, and gestured to himself, the rain, the mud-splattered carpet bag under his arm. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “I thought the house was too warm and dry and comfortable, so I decided to go and be miserable and sit out here instead.”</p><p>Mary almost laughed. Looking at the state of him now—soaked to the skin, undignified as they came, fuming—it was difficult not to. It had never been like her to savour the thought of revenge, but by God, a lot could change in one day. A lot already had.</p><p>She remembered that she was angry with him and why. “You stole my horse,” she said.</p><p>“And I regret it,” he snarled. “It thundered and the damn thing spooked and threw me.”</p><p><em>Well</em>, she was tempted to say, with an un-Christian swell of spite, <em>serves you right, you blackguard.</em></p><p>“Where was it you were going?” she asked. “Paris?”</p><p>“Away,” he said.</p><p>“I’m surprised you’re not eloping with your mistress,” she said.</p><p>Anatole glowered, his face red, and looked away from her. He wrapped his arms around himself with all the air of a scolded child.</p><p>Mary balanced the lantern on her hip. She’d had her moment to lord his own misery over him, but just as soon as it had come, the taste of it went stale. At this hour, she should have been settling down into bed to brush out her hair and say her night-time prayers. She didn’t much care to dawdle here in the rain and cold any longer than she had to, even if Anatole showed no intention of getting off his backside and joining her.</p><p>“Well,” she said, nodding back to the house. “Up with it. Unless you’d rather sit out here all night.”</p><p>Anatole went a little redder. “If I could, don’t you think I would have by now?”</p><p>Mary frowned. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>Anatole’s mouth twisted miserably. His throat spasmed as he swallowed. “It’s my knee,” he said, in a voice that sounded strangely choked-off. “I landed wrong when I fell.”</p><p>Mary took another look at him, blinking through the rain. He sat strangely, propped up on his elbows, his legs splayed in a way that was for once more awkward than deliberate. <em>Hellfire</em>, she thought to herself. As if this night hadn’t already been enough of a trial.</p><p>Her earlier anger forgotten, if only for a moment, Mary crouched beside him and set the lantern aside. “Do you think you might be able to crawl?” she asked.</p><p>“I’ve tried it already!” he snapped. “It hurts too much.”</p><p>Close now, she could hear his teeth chattering, see the blue tinge to his lips. She wondered how long he’d sat out here in the cold and dark. If he’d cried out in pain, or shouted for help. He’d have pneumonia come morning if he didn’t get inside, and soon.</p><p>“I can help you back to the house,” she said, firmly but not unkindly. “But I need you to help me. I need you to stand.”</p><p>The corners of his mouth turned down into a soft frown. “Why?”</p><p>“I can’t exactly carry you on my own, unless —”</p><p>“No,” he said. “Why are you helping me?”</p><p>Mary stared, not quite understanding. He seemed confused. Doubtful, even. What a daft question to ask, she thought. Perhaps he distrusted her. Or he was simply too proud to accept a hand when it was offered. Yes, Mary thought, he seemed suited to pride, among many other choice things.</p><p>“You’ll catch your death out here,” she said flatly. “You’re welcome to it, if that’s what you’d prefer.”</p><p>With a reluctant sigh, Anatole relented at last. She had him sling his arm across her shoulders, then looped her own around his slender waist. With one hand at his hip, she gritted her teeth and gave a great heave.</p><p>As they stood, Anatole gave a sharp yelp, and all the colour drained from his face. Mary held on tight. He was lighter than he’d looked. She was grateful, for the first time since meeting him, that they were almost the same height.</p><p>Anatole shifted, threatening to throw them both toppling off-balance. “Put me down,” he gasped.</p><p>“I’ve got you,” she said.</p><p>He shook his head hysterically. “I won’t make it. You’ll drop me.”</p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>“I’ll crush you,” he howled. “For God’s sake, Marie, put me the hell down!”</p><p>“I’m not some dainty little waif,” she snapped. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”</p><p>Anatole fell silent. He clung to her miserably, panting, balanced on one foot, terrified to put his weight down on either her or it.</p><p>Mary took a hesitant step forward and urged him to follow. Anatole gave a pathetic little hop. One step forward. Then another.</p><p>And together, they trudged off to the house.</p><p>By the time they arrived, the rain had soaked them through to their bones. Their shoes left puddles of mud and rainwater across the floor as they made their way into the hall, where the fireplace hadn’t yet been put out for the night.</p><p>Mary shrugged off her cloak in the doorway and helped Anatole into an armchair. She tossed her sodden boots aside and peeled off her socks. Spent, her limbs shaking from either the cold or exhaustion or both, she let her body sink to the floor, far enough from him that it almost wasn’t awkward, and let the fire warm her through.</p><p>Anatole rubbed his hands together, shivering hard. His shirt was so wet she could see right through it. Mary blushed and averted her eyes before she could be tempted to stare.</p><p>For a long while, they sat like that, the two of them silent, as the fire roared away and the storm thundered outside.</p><p>“Thank you,” Anatole said, without looking at her. </p><p>Mary wished he wouldn’t speak to her. It would have saved her some discomfort. She made herself busy unbraiding her hair. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.</p><p>“I’m sorry. For all of this, truly.”</p><p>Mary almost scoffed. Did he think forgiveness came that easily? For all he had done, everything he had put her through, she was owed more than a miserable dredged-up mumbling like that.</p><p>He stole a quick glance, then, seeing the look on her face, shied away. “You have to believe that I never wanted this.”</p><p>“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”</p><p>“No,” he said. “No, I mean all of this. I never intended to hurt you.”</p><p>Mary ground her teeth together. “Well, you’ve managed to do a fine job of that regardless.”</p><p>“If you’d have told me—if I’d have known it would upset you this much, I would never have—”</p><p>“I don’t believe that,” she said. “Not for a second. You’ve never cared about upsetting me. In fact, I don’t believe you’ve ever thought once about anyone’s feelings but your own.”</p><p>Anatole shifted in evident discomfort. He said nothing, couldn’t even meet her gaze, and Mary knew at once she’d struck where it mattered. He was selfish, frivolous and vain, unthinking to the point of cruelty, but in the end, even Anatole Kuragin was not above guilt.</p><p>She wondered if he’d ever felt it before in his life. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he hadn’t.</p><p>Mary’s throat tightened. She didn’t know why she had to explain herself to him, only that she had to. It was wrong and sinful and selfish, but she wanted him to hurt. Wanted him to understand, if only for a moment, how he had made her feel.</p><p>“Do you know how it feels,” she began, breathing heavily, as her fingers caught on a particularly stubborn knot, “to fall in love with a lie? To think you could have everything you’d ever dreamed of, only for it to be ripped away? I really did believe you loved me, you know. I thought I had the chance to have a life.” Her voice cracked and folded. She was not going to cry in front of him. She wouldn’t show him that vulnerability. She would <em>not</em>. “But all you wanted was the money.”</p><p>“I wasn’t the one who wanted your money.”</p><p>Mary’s hands stopped moving. Anatole hesitated, his breath ragged and wavering, before speaking again.</p><p>“I never wanted to get married,” he said. “Not just to you. At all. My father insisted on it. He would’ve disowned me if I ruined it.”</p><p>Mary turned her head. Normally, Anatole carried himself like a dancer, his body slim and elegant, every gesture and movement graceful and perfectly-poised. Now his posture wilted, his shoulders slumped, his spine curved. She knew shame well enough by now to recognize how the weight of it had settled on him. And she recognized the uncomfortable ring of truth in his words.</p><p>Against her will, she felt a great sinking rush of pity where there had once been revulsion. Prince Vasily and his kind words and paternal manners. A man she’d trusted. Admired. It was almost impossible to believe he was capable of cruelty.</p><p>Then again, she thought, appearances were often deceiving where the Kuragins were concerned. That much she knew now.</p><p>Mary took another look at him, out of the corner of her eye, when she was sure he wasn’t looking. The firelight cast the handsome angles of his face in sharp relief, like a study in chiaroscuro. At his cheek, she could almost see the angry pink mark she’d left there. The thought of it made her sick with guilt.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”</p><p>“Done what?”</p><p>Mary swallowed. “Hit you. That was wrong of me.”</p><p>Anatole laughed and brushed his hand over the side of his face. “Don’t trouble yourself about it. I’ve been hit much harder than that.”</p><p>Silence, again. Mary tried not to think of what he’d just said and what it meant. She stared straight ahead, into the fire, watching its shifting colours, the smouldering embers, the tongues lapping at the dead night air, and idly wondered if a cinder might leap out at her and set her skirt alight. For all the warmth of the room, she felt strangely cold.</p><p>Into the back of her mind crept the unwanted memory of Amélie and Anatole, that kiss, the sinuous lines of their bodies pressed together. Anatole’s smile as he looked at her, drank in her beauty, twined his fingers in her silky curls. The flash of Amélie’s skin, her perfect soft mouth, her fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt—</p><p>Mary shook her head, shaking away these thoughts she didn’t want to think. It was pointless. She could never go back to looking at him the way she once had, her charming gallant prince, seeing what she had seen.</p><p>“Do you love her?” she asked.</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Mademoiselle Bourienne,” she said, digging her nails into her palms. “She said that you told her you loved her.”</p><p>Anatole frowned, looking for once deep in thought. “You know,” he said, “I thought I did. But now I’m not so sure.”</p><p>Mary barely managed the urge to strike him again. All this trouble and torment, and to what end? Was his every emotion this fleeting and shallow?</p><p>“Why did you come looking for me?” he asked.</p><p>“I thought you’d run off.”</p><p>“I imagined you would’ve wanted me gone.”</p><p>“Of course I do,” she snapped. “Don’t you have any idea how this works? I can’t be granted a divorce unless you’re there to stand trial for adultery. I would need five years before I could claim abandonment. I can’t wait that long. I’ll have a hard enough time getting remarried as is.” Mary blushed furiously. “And then it might be too late…if I wish to have a child, that is…”</p><p>Mary let her voice trail off into nothing.</p><p>Anatole stared. Very quietly, his brow softly furrowed, he said, “Five years?”</p><p>She’d been wrong, she realized. Leapt to conclusions, in her hurt. He’d never meant to trick her at all. He hadn’t known enough to.</p><p>Mary shook her head. The lighting in the room had softened. It made him look terribly young, she thought. Thoughtless. Stupid, even. But hardly malicious. Hating him was like hating the flu, or the winter. What was the point?</p><p>Anatole couldn’t seem to bring himself to meet her eyes. “Marie,” he said haltingly, a high flush colouring his face, “if you’ll agree not to bring this matter to the Church, I’ll be your husband. Properly.” He paused. “If it’s a child you want, we…we can discuss it.”</p><p>Dimly, it occurred to her that for perhaps the first time in her life the choice lay entirely with her. Amélie’s signed confession was tucked away safely in her pocket. She could go through with the divorce still, send him packing before breakfast and be rid of the whole sordid affair and live out the rest of her days as a lonely spinster with no one to keep her company but her father.</p><p>On the other hand.</p><p>Mary worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She could insist, if she chose, on whatever she wanted, and if he wanted that badly to stay married, he would give it to her. She could have ordered him to be perfectly pleasant, to tell her he loved her, that he wanted her and her alone. She could have the baby she had dreamed of, her own child, to hold in her arms and love and know it was hers. Night after night, her bed was so cold and lonely. And God help her, she wanted him still. There was nothing in Scripture to suggest it might be wrong. No one would have condemned her for it either.</p><p>But as she envisioned all she could ask of him, the thought of it only made her feel vaguely ill. He didn’t want her, or this, or any of it. He never would. Nothing had changed. And the more she rolled it over in her mind, the more she hated herself for having ever wanted it at all. Happiness, but at someone else’s expense. What good was there in that?</p><p>“I won’t divorce you,” she said. “But I don’t want you as a husband either.”</p><p>Anatole looked at her in bewilderment. His lips were slightly pursed. His hair had dried enough by now that it had gotten back some of its blonde and begun to stand up again. It was damnably attractive.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” he said.</p><p>“I meant it when I said I didn’t want you anymore,” she said.</p><p>“Then why let me stay?”</p><p>Mary sighed. It rattled in her chest, something delicate and broken. She felt very small, suddenly aware of how quiet her voice was, how thin her limbs were, how cold and friendless and sad she was.</p><p>“The truth is that I’m lonely,” she murmured, tracing her fingers along the pattern on the carpet. “I’d at least like to not have to eat dinner alone with my father every evening.”</p><p>A strange expression came over Anatole’s face, part pity, part something that almost looked like recognition.</p><p>“So, I’m willing to offer you a bargain instead,” she said.</p><p>“A bargain,” he repeated, as if he didn’t understand what that word meant.</p><p>“Yes,” said Mary. Her face was very hot. It felt not unlike talking to the wallpaper. “You don’t want to be turned out onto the street, and I don’t want the embarrassment of turning you out. Neither of us will be happy, but we won’t be miserable either. We both get something out of it. I know this is all very strange. But if you’re willing to agree to my terms, we can put this matter behind us.”</p><p>Anatole seemed to consider this for a moment. He shifted around in his seat to face her properly, his injured leg at an odd angle. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s hear it, then.”</p><p>Mary drew in a deep breath to steel herself. Already, she felt stronger. More in control. The feel of it was still unfamiliar, but she’d grown to appreciate it.</p><p>“I expect you to stay here,” she said. “In the house, I mean. I won’t allow you to give anyone reason to talk with your carousing around Moscow. I won’t stand to be humiliated again. There won’t be any more of your mistresses or affairs.”</p><p>Anatole’s expression grew strained. Mary knew that it was petty of her. More out of jealousy than she wanted to admit. But really, she thought, it was the least of what he owed her. If she had to go without, it was only fair that he should as well.</p><p>“And what if I want to pay my sister a visit?” he asked.</p><p>“I don’t trust you,” she said plainly. “You’ve given me no reason to. Leave if you want, but if you walk out that door, it’ll be for the last time.”</p><p>Anatole’s jaw tightened. He seemed to consider arguing, then decided against it.</p><p>“Is that all?” he said stiffly.</p><p>Was it?</p><p>No. Not quite.</p><p>Every week in the front pew she heard the whispers and felt the stares of the other attendants, hot against her back, making her cheeks flame red in shame. <em>Have you heard about this one? The poor thing, married and still on her own. Such a pity. </em></p><p>Mary cleared her throat. “You will escort me to church every Sunday.”</p><p>Anatole pursed his lips, looking more petulant than he had any right to. “<em>Every </em>Sunday?”</p><p>“Yes,” she said curtly. “Every Sunday.”</p><p>He gave a long-suffering sigh, as if she’d just asked him for the shirt off of his back. It struck Mary as ungrateful. With the state of his soul as it was, or as she imagined it must have been, honestly, she was the one doing him a favour.</p><p>“Are we in agreement?” she said.</p><p>Anatole sighed again. “Fine.”</p><p>An uncomfortable silence settled over them. Anatole distractedly fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt. He wasn’t quite back to his usual arrogance, but some of the nervous tension had left his shoulders.</p><p>“It doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you,” she added, with cold sharpness that felt unlike her. “I haven’t. And I don’t imagine I ever will.”</p><p>Anatole’s face was blank and indecipherable. Looking at him, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side, and not the faintest hint of an expression in the corner of his mouth, it felt as if he could read all her thoughts like an open book. She didn’t like being looked at this way.</p><p>“Very well, Marya Nikolaevna,” he said.</p><p>Mary sat back. It must have been early morning by now. The sound of the rain had dimmed to a distant pattering. They both had stopped shivering. The evening, unexpectedly, wasn’t ending quite as horrendously as she’d dreaded.</p><p>Eventually the fire died down, and with a stilted <em>goodnight</em>, they parted like strangers and wound their way to their rooms at opposite ends of the house.</p><p>The next day, Amélie was sent into the employment of Julie and Boris Drubetskoy with a generous letter of recommendation and a bonus of ten thousand roubles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Y'all didn't seriously think we were going to end it <em>that</em> soon, did you? There's still a whole war to fight! ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mary, Anatole, and Andrei all try to find ways to divert themselves.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HAI HAI WE ARE BACK </p><p>Firstly! This chapter contains references to parental verbal/ emotional abuse as well as Lise's canon death.  Please read with caution!</p><p>Secondly! Anatole has ADHD and that's just ~ canon babey ~</p><p>Thirdly! We love our girl Pelageya with all our heart. Our sweet chaotic macrame-selling-on-the-pier lesbian aunt</p><p>Fourthly! Please comment if you like this chap! It's a huge motivator for us. We're sending you all virtual, COVID-appropriate squeezes &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Prince Bolkonsky, as it turned out, was not all that pleased with Amélie Bourienne’s sudden departure.</p><p>Anatole knew this, because the morning after she left, the old man dragged him from his bed and out of his sleep shouting loud enough to wake the dead.</p><p>“It’s your fault!” he howled. “You’re the reason she’s gone!”</p><p>Startled and only half-awake, Anatole couldn’t manage much more than a dazed mumble in response. This struck him as something of an improper way to greet your son-in-law. But perhaps it was to be expected. He’d gathered by now that the Bolkonskys weren’t overly concerned with things like politeness, or manners, or other people’s comfort.</p><p>“Look me in the eye when I speak to you, boy!” the old prince said, and shook Anatole so hard his teeth rattled. “I’ll teach you some respect, you insolent little—I’ll beat you to a pulp, just watch me!”</p><p>Anatole’s eyes shot open. If he hadn’t been awake before, he certainly was now. More on instinct than anything, he shoved Bolkonsky away, but overbalanced and dropped to the floor in a heap. His knee smarted in protest. He let out a sharp yelp. His knee. Christ, he’d almost forgotten about that. As if he’d needed another thing to worry about.</p><p>Bolkonsky snapped his fingers until Anatole turned his head up. Without his wig or glasses on, his eyes bloodshot, his lip curled into an animalistic snarl that showed all his teeth, he looked like some sort of wildman of the woods.</p><p>“What’s the matter with you?” Anatole snapped.</p><p>“You know what you’ve done,” said Bolkonsky, his incensed face entirely too close to Anatole’s. “You stole her. You had no right. You already took my daughter from me. You took the goddamn dowry, took my peace of mind, for God’s sake, wasn’t that enough for you?”</p><p>Anatole eyed Bolkonsky’s walking stick warily. He didn’t trust the old man not to start swinging it. Bolkonsky was only a small fellow, slight as his son, but there was surprising strength between those thin shoulders, and more than that, spite.</p><p>“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Anatole said.</p><p>“Don’t you play ignorant with me, you rake!” Bolkonsky said. “I’ve heard everything. Marya told me all about your carry-on with Amélie.”</p><p>Anatole scowled. “Shouldn’t you know better at your age than to stick your nose in other people’s marital affairs?”</p><p>“I’ll stick my nose wherever it damn pleases me,” Bolkonsky seethed, spittle flying from his mouth. He prodded Anatole in the chest with his stick. “I don’t owe a charlatan like you anything. You’re a scoundrel, a blackguard—you’re a menace, that’s what you are. Well, I won’t stand for it. If you’re going to behave like a dog, then I’ll start treating you like one!”</p><p>Anatole felt the blood rush to his ears. It was wrong to hit an old man, he knew, worse still one a good half a foot shorter than him. But there was a first time for everything.</p><p>It was then that Mary came running into the room with thunderous steps, panting and puffing and red in the face, as if she’d chased him through the whole house. “Papa!” she shrieked.</p><p>“I don’t want to hear a word out of your mouth,” said Bolkonsky, without looking at her.</p><p>Anatole watched, now more baffled than insulted, as Bolkonsky began tearing about the room, swearing under his breath, pulling Anatole’s things out of the armoire and dresser and throwing them into a pile on the floor.</p><p>“You think you can come into my home and torment me and my family?” Bolkonsky muttered to no one in particular as he tossed a waistcoat over his shoulder. “You think you can bring your degeneracy into my house? Bah. I’ll send you out myself!”</p><p>Anatole frowned. That, now, had the potential to be problematic.</p><p>Mary began, “For heaven’s <em>sake</em>, Papa—!”</p><p>Bolkonsky sharply veered around to face her. “Get rid of him,” he said viciously, and gestured to Anatole with his walking stick as if he were a mongrel she’d dragged in from the gutter. “You said you were going to. You didn’t have the right to send Amélie off in the first place. I want <em>him</em> gone and I want <em>her</em> back.”</p><p>The flush crept down the back of Mary’s neck. At her sides, her hands curled into fists. “I’ve changed my mind.”</p><p>“What?” Bolkonsky sneered. “You let this fop up your skirt and now you’ve lost your principles? Are you really so shameless? You’d have this prostitute for a husband?”</p><p>Anatole knew he should have felt a hot flash of anger at that. Offense, at the very least. He should have gotten to his feet and challenged Bolkonsky for the insult, right then and there. But watching as Mary sputtered and stammered and tried to speak, it was difficult to feel much more than pity.</p><p>“All he’s ever wanted was the dowry,” Bolkonsky shouted. “He never cared for you, you stupid girl. He won’t care about you now that she’s gone either. Look at yourself, Marya. What sort of a man would ever marry you for love?”</p><p>“I know that, Papa!” Mary shouted back.</p><p>Anatole’s eyes widened. He had expected her to cower and weep. Certainly that was what she had done the last time. He’d told her the same thing, not very long ago. Yet it sounded so much crueller to hear it said in someone else’s voice.</p><p>“Marya Nikolaevna,” Bolkonsky said, and raised a shaking hand to point at her, “you listen to your father. I told you from the very beginning you were better off not marrying at all, and look what’s happened. You’re getting that divorce if I have to drag the both of you in front of the bishop myself.”</p><p>“I won’t,” Mary said. Her voice shook. “And you can’t make me.”</p><p>Bolkonsky stared at her. His eyes watered, as if she’d just struck him across the face. Well, Anatole thought to himself. Seemingly he wasn’t the only one surprised to learn Mary had a backbone after all.</p><p>“You only want me to be miserable!” Bolkonsky howled. “That’s why you sent her away from me!”</p><p>“That’s not true.”</p><p>Bolkonsky’s face flushed a brilliant red. His voice heightened with a ragged edge. “I was going to propose to her. You knew that, didn’t you? All I wanted was some <em>companionship</em>.”</p><p>Mary’s mouth fell open in horror. She recoiled from him, shaking her head. “No,” she said, her eyes wet with tears. “She would never have wanted you, Papa. How could you think that? For heaven’s sake, she’s not even half your age.”</p><p>To Anatole’s shock, Bolkonsky began to blubber, his shoulders hitching, his chin wobbling, until tears rolled down his cheeks and his breath came in short wet gasps. Anatole thought for a moment he was seeing things. Until now, he hadn’t realized Bolkonsky had enough room in him for any feeling besides anger.</p><p>“It’s not fair!” he cried, and stomped his foot like a child. “I haven’t had anyone to love me since your mother left us. And now you want me to be all on my own.” He wiped his eyes with one furious shaking hand. Something ugly and poisonous crawled into his voice. “You’re an absolute disgrace of a daughter. I’ve tried all my damn life to try to make into you something, and for what?”</p><p>Mary said nothing, her lips pressed together tightly, her eyes wet. Anatole recognized her expression well. He’d seen it before in Hélène, when their mother screamed at her and picked her apart with insults. It was the face of someone forcing down every bit of emotion in them with all of their strength and fighting for it not to show.</p><p>The silence that followed was awkward to the point of pain. Bolkonsky stormed off, but not before turning a filthy look on Anatole, hacking up a wad of phlegm, and spitting on the floor at his feet. They heard his heavy footsteps marching down the hallway, then the distant sound of a door slamming shut so hard it rattled the house right down to its foundation.</p><p>Mary was breathing very heavily. She wrung her hands together at her sternum. A strange glassy expression had come over her face.</p><p>Anatole picked himself off the ground, suddenly self-conscious, mortified at what he had just witnessed, and ashamed for a reason he couldn’t quite place.</p><p>Mary turned her head to him. Her cheeks flushed a startling shade of crimson. Anatole looked down at himself, dressed only in his nightshirt, and realized why. It was lucky for them both it had been so murderously cold the night before—normally, he slept in the nude.</p><p>“Put some clothes on,” Mary said, with venom that made him flinch. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”</p>
<hr/><p>If Anatole had known then that that little skirmish was the most excitement he’d get for the next few months, he might have savoured it a little more, or at least gotten a good riposte or two in.</p><p>Life passed you by slowly in the Bald Hills. Every clock in the house could have broken, and he wouldn’t have known any better. There was nothing to <em>do</em>, not unless you fancied staring at the wallpaper or praying over icons, which he certainly did not.</p><p>He envied Andrei, who was off honeymooning in Moscow with his new bride, that lovely Rostova girl, the one with the wide black eyes and willowy limbs and pretty elven features. Andrei himself was no slouch either. He was sullen, granted, and wouldn’t have known a bit of fun if it had bitten him in the arse, but he was handsome, in a stubborn, cold sort of way. That he hated Anatole did little to dampen the charm.</p><p>Anatole entertained himself with fantasies of the two of them, sometimes one or the other, sometimes both at once, and never felt an ounce of guilt for it. It was a gift of his, this ability to find beauty in just about anything.</p><p>Amélie had been a delightful little distraction while she had lasted—and he’d adored her, he really had—but in the end, she hadn’t been much more than that. In his admittedly short life, he’d fallen in love and into bed with perhaps thirty-odd women, only to fall out of it the next morning. Now that he’d given it a little thought, he imagined he would’ve gotten bored of her soon enough.</p><p>So he was a romantic. He’d never claimed to be a particularly faithful one.</p><p>If it was foolish to follow his heart’s passions, well, he was quite happy to be a fool. What he lacked in what other people called decency, he made up for in sincerity. He’d lived his whole life that way, and it had never entered into his head that anything about it might have been wrong. It wasn’t as if he’d set out to hurt anyone.</p><p>But he had. And even more startlingly, he wasn’t entirely sure this time that what he’d meant mattered more than what he’d done.</p><p>Anatole paused, his mind caught on that uncomfortable thought, and shook his head. He didn’t want to think of it, so he simply wouldn’t.</p><p>And so life went on with its usual humdrum, and spring withered away, and nothing changed or grew or happened. True to his word, he suffered through church every Sunday and hated every second of it. Mary lost herself in the services, standing and sitting in time with the congregation, her lips moving perfectly for every prayer and hymn with reverent passion and focus that bewildered him.</p><p>Each evening at dinner, they sat across the table from each other while Bolkonsky grumbled about the war effort and the state of the house. Since his outburst, he’d accomplished a truly shocking feat Anatole hadn’t thought possible: he’d become even grumpier than before. The barbs and jibes he normally threw at Mary became crueller, more pointed, until her face hardened into a cold mask. When he deigned to notice Anatole’s existence, it was always with derision not unlike the sort he’d gotten used to in Vasily.</p><p>But besides those few hours he spent in her company, Mary never so much as spared a look in his direction. There were no guests, no visitors, no outings into the village. Anatole itched with boredom. It was enough to drive a person mad, and it had started to. Idleness did terrible things to him. It made him bite his nails and scratch at his skin, then stuff his hands into his pockets, remembering how his mother had told him off for it. He was a man who needed to entertain and be entertained.</p><p>Perhaps that was Mary’s plan, then—bore him until he was desperate enough to come crawling back to her. As far as schemes went, it was deviously clever.</p><p>But if that was her intention, she’d neglected to act on it. Maybe her father had been right. Maybe she’d only wanted everyone to be just as unhappy here as she was.</p><p><em>Sweet sister,</em> he wrote to Hélène one sweltering afternoon, <em>my darling Lena, light of my life, I’m absolutely bored to death.</em></p><p><em>The demanding little shrew</em>—just as soon as he’d written that phrase, he frowned and crossed it out. Hélène wouldn’t care for it at all.</p><p>
  <em>Marie’s been trying to convert me. She means to save my soul, I think. Or punish me. </em>
</p><p>He grimaced, searching for the words to explain his predicament. Hélène would be angry, he knew, and remind him that he was lucky Vasily didn’t have ears in the country. But really, for all she’d complained of her own indiscretions, it was only fair he got to as well.</p><p><em>I was found in something of a compromising position with a friend of hers</em>, he wrote, wincing at the memory.<em> She was very upset with me, as you might imagine, but she agreed to put it behind us if I become a proper Christian. It’s my own fault, I know, but I really don’t think I deserve this. I’d forgotten how long Sunday service was. Honestly, Lena, I’d rather sit through tea with Pierre again. You’ll have to visit me soon. I miss our outings.</em></p><p>Anatole took the barrel of his pen between his teeth for a moment, thinking. Unable to sit properly for more than ten seconds, he slung one leg over the armrest of his chair. Then, he wrote:</p><p>
  <em>Say—only theoretically, of course—she changed her mind and turned me out of the house. Or I decided I’d had enough of being married and left. You’d take me in, wouldn’t you?</em>
</p><p><em>Anatole</em>, she wrote back a few weeks later—<em>Anatole</em>, not <em>Tolya</em>, which was never a good sign—and through the paper he could practically hear the stern note of annoyance in her voice, see the way her brow would twitch and her eyes would narrow in the corners. <em>I did warn you about this, you know.</em></p><p>Anatole grimaced.</p><p>
  <em>I’ll tell you this very forwardly, darling—if she caught you with her friend, you’re lucky she didn’t send her brother to challenge you. If she’s mollified, you’ll just have to make do with that. Just keep her happy. And be grateful she’s not the sort to seek divorce. You know how Papa would take it.</em>
</p><p>In smaller, sharper handwriting, as if written in haste:</p><p>
  <em>Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t weather another scandal, darling, not after all of that nonsense with Dolokhov. Surely you can understand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m very busy. I have important business in Petersburg. I’ll visit when I can.</em>
</p><p>Anatole crushed the letter into a ball and tossed it across the room. If he’d wanted a lecture on decorum, he would’ve written Anna Pavlovna Scherer instead. Hélène had always had the irritating habit of telling him what she thought he needed to hear. She was too practical, too focused on petty things like appearance and reputation to be helpful when he was in a mood like this.</p><p>Anatole scrounged about the room for his violin and plucked idly at the strings, pulling odd notes out of the air, and fiddled with the tuning pegs until everything sounded right. As a child, he’d driven his music teacher mad dodging lessons and sight reading instead of learning his pieces. More than once he’d been told he might have had the makings of greatness, if only he hadn’t been so damn lazy instead.</p><p>But the way Anatole saw it, ambition was overrated. Just look where it had gotten Hélène. Better lazy and happy than successful and miserable.</p><p>He wandered about aimlessly this way, just as unable to stand still as he was to sit around and do nothing, and let his feet lead him down the stairs to the clamour spilling from the door of the drawing room.</p><p>Anatole lowered his violin, then looked again. The sight before his eyes would’ve given his mother a stroke.</p><p>Barefoot people dressed in rags pottered about the place, holding cups of tea or plates with bread. An aged man with a malformed leg teetered on a walking stick. Another, this one wearing a monk’s cassock, was sitting on the sofa. Mary, about a head taller than everyone else in the room, looking happier than any sane person should have to have their house full of vagrants, was listening attentively to one of the beggars, an old woman with a shock of wild grey hair and a back bent with age who was speaking in a croaky worn-out voice.</p><p>“When I was in Kiev, Crazy Cyril says to me—he’s one of God’s chosen—he says, ‘Why aren’t you going to the right place? Go to Kolyazin where a wonder-working icon of the Holy Mother of God has been revealed’, and so I said goodbye to the holy folks and went off on my way.”</p><p>“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down, Pelageya?” asked Mary.</p><p>If Pelageya had heard the question, she gave no indication of it. “So I come,” she went on, with animated gestures, “and the people say to me, ‘A great blessing has been revealed, and holy oil trickles from the cheeks of our blessed Mother, the Holy Virgin Mother of God’.”</p><p>It was too much. The sort of ridiculousness he hadn’t expected, but perhaps should have. Anatole chuckled.</p><p>Mary startled so violently the teacup almost went flying from her hands. </p><p>Pelageya whipped around. She gripped Mary by the wrist. “Who is this, now?” she asked.</p><p>Mary composed herself and set her teacup aside. “No one,” she said. She made a little shooing motion with her hand in his direction. “Anatole, please, leave us.”</p><p>Anatole didn’t listen to her. Why should he? This was the most interesting thing he’d seen in months. For all the hours he’d been made to stand through church, surely he deserved a little spectacle when it was kind enough to present itself to him.</p><p>He bowed his head and kissed Pelageya’s calloused hand. “A pleasure, madame,” he said. “I’m Prince Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin.” A little petulantly, he added, “Marie’s husband.”</p><p>Pelageya’s face lit up in delight. Her smile was yellow and crooked and gap-filled and impossible to dislike. She clasped his hand and shook it hard.</p><p>“My good sir, the pleasure is all mine, truly.” She turned her head to address Mary, as if Anatole wasn’t standing before her and still holding her hand, “Such a fine-looking boy! Handsome as the day is long. What a lucky bride you are, princess. You must have been blessed by Saint Gorgonia.”</p><p>Anatole smiled and extricated his hand. “You flatter me.”</p><p>Mary’s face went red, but only in patches. “Don’t laugh at her,” she hissed.</p><p>Anatole put his palms up in surrender. “I intend to do nothing of the sort.”</p><p>Mary’s expression softened a little around the edges. It looked almost like guilt.</p><p>Pelageya, oblivious, went prattling on about some monk or another, and a blind soldier healed by an icon of the Virgin Mary, and all that religious nonsense that only someone like Marya Dmitrievna would’ve taken seriously. Mary listened for a minute, until she was distracted by requests for tea and bread, and busied herself with the samovar.</p><p>Anatole knew when his presence was unwelcome. It didn’t offend him. He’d lost interest anyway. Raising his violin to his chin again, he wandered off into the corridor while his fingers whittled away an old Ruska Roma folk song Matryosha had shown him over a bottle of vodka. Anatole lost himself in the music and drifted to someplace far away. He remembered the warmth of that evening as they sat on the bank of the Neva, tipsy and happy, her head leaning against his shoulder, heard her low, raspy voice singing in a foreign language, tasted the vodka on his tongue again. A minute might have passed, or even an hour.</p><p>From behind him, someone coughed. Anatole opened his eyes and turned around.</p><p>He’d lured in something of an audience. The man and his walking stick, Pelageya, and a gaggle of other ragamuffins had gathered silently to watch him play. Mary had drifted in behind them, a curious look on her face.</p><p>Anatole smiled. The attention was a more than welcome distraction. He began to play again, his hands moving with familiar thoughtless ease, more feeling than thinking his way, and threw in a few arpeggios and grace notes just to show off. There was a smattering applause and a few smiles, and he’d forgotten how lovely it was to entertain a crowd, and he wondered what he should play next—</p><p>“What the hell is this goddamn racket?” shouted a gruff voice.</p><p>The violin trailed off with a startled shriek.</p><p>Prince Bolkonsky had shuffled into the room, dressed only in his underthings, a powdered wig on his head and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He surveyed the room with disapproval. Pelageya gave a little gasp and leapt behind Mary.</p><p>“You’ve turned my drawing room into a poorhouse,” Bolkonsky said. “And now you’ve brought the circus in as well. Is this what you waste your time on instead of studying now?”</p><p><em>Crabby old goat</em>, Anatole thought.</p><p>“Father,” Mary began.</p><p>“No, no, don’t bother with it!” Bolkonsky said, waving her off, and padded off down the hall. “I know how it is. You love these strangers more than your own father.”</p><p>Mary blinked back tears, silent. There was something sad and defeated in the way she held herself, like a dog kicked in the ribs. Anatole couldn’t say he liked her, or that he could even stand her, but seeing her this way, he felt terribly sad for her.</p><p>“He shouldn’t speak to you that way,” he said.</p><p>To his surprise, Mary’s face hardened. Her eyes flashed with anger.</p><p>“How dare you judge him,” she said, with the same proud coldness he’d seen in Andrei. “You don’t have the right. I love my father. It’s not his fault he isn’t well.”</p><p>Anatole pressed his lips together. He’d endured worse by his father’s hand, but he’d never thought to call any of it <em>love</em>. That wasn’t what love was meant to be. It didn’t leave you hurting or feeling small.</p><p>He wondered what had made her think this way.</p><p>“My apologies,” he said.</p><p>Then he left the room, violin in hand, and went to find a quiet place to nap.</p>
<hr/><p>There had been a time when Andrei longed for war. He’d seen something romantic in it, the thought of charging headfirst into battle to glory or death or both, to lay down his life for the Tsar and the motherland, to be hailed and remembered as a hero. He had been a discontent young man then, chafing in the confines of marriage and polite society, burning with the need to prove himself. To what, he still didn’t know.</p><p>Lise had begged him not to leave. Mary had implored him to stay. Instead, he’d let his foolishness carry him off to Austerlitz and send him running into the fray. What a fool he’d been. Proud. Idealistic. Ungrateful. And it had cost him the last few months he might have spent with Lise.</p><p>He’d learned the truth too late. War wasn’t freedom—it was Hell on earth. There was nothing noble in suffering, nothing romantic in death.</p><p>And its spectre haunted him still, even now.</p><p>In his study, lit by the oil lamp at his bureau, Andrei reread the draft letter twenty times, thirty times, forty times, until the words bled and ran together. The paper was wrinkled where he had crushed it, without meaning to, in his grip.</p><p>He could hear them again, the cannons, the screams, smell the smoke and sulphur and burnt earth, taste the blood in the back of his throat. His breath came fast and short. His heart pounded so violently it left his limbs trembling.</p><p>He’d known this was coming. Everyone had. Over the past few months, news of the war had steadily grown more dire, and all that time Andrei’s insides had been eaten alive with silent dread. Defeat after defeat had driven the Russians further back, and by August, it seemed the sword of Damocles was set to fall on their heads. Now the string holding it up had loosened. There were whispers that the French would reach Moscow come autumn.</p><p>General Kutuzov must have been desperate. The summons called on every able-bodied man left in Russia. Andrei’s regiment was set to deploy next week, to a village in the north called Borodino, and whatever horrors lay in wait there.</p><p>Andrei leaned forwards and held his face in his hands. Why now, when he’d finally found a bit of happiness? Was this his punishment for his arrogance? Hadn’t he been punished enough already?</p><p>“Andrei, someone’s come to see you,” came Natasha’s voice.</p><p>She had appeared in the doorway, her hair braided, her face still flushed from dinner. The warm rosy light spilling in from the hallway behind her gave her the ethereal look of an angel. Nikolushka, his hair damp from the bath, clung to her hand.</p><p>Andrei shoved down all his grief, violently, into some small part of him where it wouldn’t be seen. It felt as if someone had reached down his throat and into his chest and torn his heart out. He forced himself to smile, straightened his back, and slid the letter into the drawer. “Hello, my loves.”</p><p>Nikolushka dashed across the room and clambered into Andrei’s lap. Leaning up, his little hands grabbing onto the front of Andrei’s shirt for balance, he gave Andrei a wet smacking kiss on the cheek that made Andrei cringe, then feel guilty for cringing.</p><p>Fatherhood had never sat right with him. Nothing could have prepared him for it. He loved Nikolushka, he truly did. But it was distant, almost hesitant, with a cold heavy ache he expected he’d carry with him to the grave. He hardly knew how to speak to him, much less show the affection that seemed to come so easily to Natasha.</p><p>Right before his eyes, his little boy had grown into a slip of a man. He’d missed so much. Too much. It frightened him, to see how much of a person could fit in such a small body.</p><p>“Papa, you missed it,” Nikolushka said, standing up on Andrei’s knees. “Count Rostov pulled a coin out of my ear! And—and then he spilled borscht <em>all</em> over the carpet, and Countess Rostova called him a bad word.”</p><p>Andrei smiled, despite himself. Through the wash of cold numbness he felt a flicker of warmth. Nikolushka had taken to Natasha’s family almost at once, and they had taken back to him with unthinking fierce adoration, as if he were one of their own.</p><p>All of this, he’d have to leave behind.</p><p>“He did, now?” he said.</p><p>Nikolushka nodded excitedly. The day had been a whirlwind. That morning, they had enjoyed a walk in the park and paid calls to Marya Dmitrievna for tea and biscuits and the latest gossip from her ladies’ group at church, then to Sonya and Nikolai, recently married and settling into their townhouse on Prechistenskaya Boulevard. And still he was bursting with energy.</p><p>Andrei winced, his smile faltering, as an invisible nail drove itself into his forehead, just above his eye. His breath caught. His pulse skittered.</p><p>Nikolushka went prattling on, “And then Nikolai said he could show me and Petya how to play poker, but Sonya said that was silly. And then Tasha helped me write a letter to Tante. Can we visit her, Papa? Please?”</p><p>The pain flashed back, angrier. It radiated through his skull in pulses, like the nail was being driven in with a mallet. Andrei felt his eyes water. He didn’t have it in him to deal with this. Not now.</p><p>“I think it’s past your bedtime, darling,” he said.</p><p>Nikolushka pouted. “But I’m not sleepy,” he whined. “I don’t <em>want</em> bed.”</p><p>Andrei looked to Natasha helplessly. She rested her chin on top of Nikolushka’s head. “Coco,” she said, “if you’re a good boy and go to sleep like your Papa says, I’ll take you to the bakery tomorrow. We can get medoviks.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Only if you behave.”</p><p>Nikolushka seemed to consider this for a moment. He nodded. “Okay.”</p><p>Natasha smiled and squeezed him around the middle. “Say goodnight to your Papa.”</p><p>“Night night, Papa,” Nikolushka said.</p><p>Andrei kissed Nikolushka’s forehead. Through the pain, he offered a feeble smile. “Goodnight, my little man.”</p><p>“I’ll put him to bed,” Natasha whispered. “I allowed Mademoiselle Boucet an evening to herself.”</p><p>She picked him up and carried him out of the room, just as naturally as she might have her own child, humming a lullaby under her breath. Andrei didn’t need to follow or see her to know what came next. She would sit him on the mattress, have him say his night-time prayers, tuck him under the covers, and give him a kiss on the cheek, just as she did every time she put him to bed. All of that she did without ever having been asked.</p><p>Andrei turned back to his desk as the weight of everything settled on him. The grief threatened to rise in his throat, hot and painful. The floor tilted dizzily beneath his feet.</p><p>He felt Natasha’s hands settle on his shoulders from behind, then the gentle brush of her lips against the back of his neck, and startled.</p><p>Natasha laughed softly. “Did I frighten you, darling?”</p><p>Andrei touched her hand. “No.”</p><p>Natasha leaned down to kiss the crown of his head. Her fingers began to work themselves into the muscles of his shoulders, kneading with just the right amount of pressure, drawing out all the tension that had gathered there. Andrei held back an undignified moan as her thumb pressed into that tender point just to the left of his spine.</p><p>“I’ve had the most wonderful day,” she said, with brightness that would’ve irritated him in anyone else. “Sonyushka and I have planned a little outing to Madame Chambord’s tomorrow. She said her feet have started aching terribly, but she’s lucky she isn’t showing yet.”</p><p>Natasha giggled, as if sharing a joke with herself.</p><p>“Mama would have kittens if she knew why they rushed the wedding. Really, I suppose it’s for the best, but it’s a shame she has to hide it. You’ll keep this between us, won’t you, darling? I don’t want her to think I’m some sort of busybody.”</p><p>Andrei had never been one for mindless society chatter. The gossip should have irked him. It certainly had before. He’d been cold to Lise, sulked through soirées and evenings at the opera, scoffed at her chatter, brushed her off when all she’d asked of him was his attention, out of some arrogant need to think he was above it all.</p><p>But with Natasha, Moscow had begun to feel like something of a home. There was nothing inauthentic about her or this place. It was strangely warm and familiar, brimming with the same odd vitality that he’d fallen for in her, as if their kindred souls had known each other and lived here since the beginning of time.</p><p>“Coco’s been an absolute angel today, don’t you think?” she continued. “Did you hear? He’s taken to calling me Tasha. It’s the sweetest thing.” She lowered her voice a little. “I know it wasn’t easy for him at first. But I think he’s done well with us. And he’s stopped crying for his aunt.”</p><p>“That’s very nice.”</p><p>“He and Petya were playing soldier before dinner. My father said it’s wonderful they’ve become such fast friends. It’s good for a little boy to be around others his age.” The smile was evident in her voice. “It’s enough to make me want one of my own.”</p><p>Andrei pinched the bridge of his nose. A sigh rattled out of him. The headache had built to something truly horrendous. He should’ve been firmer about this from the beginning, really. It was his own fault for tolerating it this far.</p><p>“Natasha,” he began.</p><p>“I know you’ve said you want to wait.” She twined her arms around his neck and kissed his lips softly. “But wouldn’t it be nice if they were close in age?”</p><p>“Natasha.”</p><p>“It was one of the greatest blessings of my life to grow up with siblings. He’d be so much happier with a little brother or sister, Andrei, truly. I know Mary was lovely and she did the best she could, but it’s not fair to him to let him grow up without other children. He’s been on his own long enough as it is.”</p><p>Andrei swallowed past the lump in his throat. It would have been nice. More than nice. He imagined it sometimes—an infant with his soft curls, Natasha’s large dark eyes, the little coos and gurgles he had adored and missed in Nikolushka.</p><p>But then he remembered Nikolushka’s birth, and his fantasy stopped cold. Lise’s screams that night. The sight of her, after it was all over, when he’d finally been allowed into the room. Her face pale and lifeless, her eyes glassy. The blood on the bedsheets, staining the skirt of her nightdress, the smell of it thick enough to choke.</p><p>Some nights he saw Natasha there instead, limp and cold and dead. All his fault. </p><p>Andrei realized he’d forgotten to keep breathing.</p><p>Natasha kissed his face several times, softly, and murmured, “You’d make me the happiest woman on earth.”</p><p>Andrei tried to speak, but she silenced him with her lips. Stroking her hands through his hair, she climbed into his lap, and she was warm and soft against him. Andrei almost moaned.</p><p>Natasha broke the kiss, keeping her lips close to his. “You seem anxious,” she murmured.</p><p>“It’s nothing.”</p><p>Natasha tilted her head, a gentle frown wrinkling her brow. Her delicate fingers traced along his jawline. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said quietly. “Isn’t there?”</p><p>Andrei bowed his head, avoiding her gaze.</p><p>“Andryusha? Have I upset you?”</p><p>Natasha’s hand found its way under his chin and gently turned his face up, until he had no choice but to look her in the eye. She frowned, searching his face. Her eyes were wide and fearful, somehow childlike and ancient all at once. It seemed she could see right into his soul. Strange, how a person could make you feel so known without you wanting it.</p><p>“Andrei,” she murmured. “Talk to me. Please.”</p><p>Andrei bit his tongue. He hated lying. Opposed it as a matter of principle. It was a thing for cowards and thieves, for unkind gossip at soirées and troublesome children.</p><p>But the last time he’d left, she’d cried out as if something in her had snapped and broken. He didn’t have it in him to hurt her that way again. Not yet.</p><p>Andrei forced himself to smile and tilted his head to kiss her palm. “I’m just a little tired,” he said. “That’s all.”</p><p>Natasha visibly relaxed and smiled. “Then let’s get some sleep. Our Coco ran me ragged today.”</p><p>She kissed his cheek. Andrei felt his heart flutter. <em>Our Coco</em>. She had said it so casually, so thoughtlessly, almost as if she didn’t realize what it meant to him.</p><p>They dressed for bed and crawled onto the mattress together. Natasha curled under his arm at his side, content as a cat in a spot of sunlight, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing slow lines across his palm. Every now and then, she would sigh and lean in closer. Andrei raised a hand to stroke through her curls, sensing rather than seeing them. His eyes were wet with tears.</p><p>He’d been injured very badly at Austerlitz. The physician had informed him he was lucky he hadn’t split his skull in two. Andrei had never told a soul—not Mary, not the doctor, not even Natasha—but after that day, the vision in his right eye had never fully returned. He couldn’t see Natasha’s face now, as she lay beside him. But he heard her breathing, felt her weight against him, smelled her perfume, and wondered how much longer he would have this.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The night before.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all!! Sorry for the delay! It is ~ finals szn ~ which has been intense. We hope you're all doing well!! We heart you Lots!</p><p>Please note, this chapter references drinking as a means to cope with anxiety/ depression, sexual activity while being intoxicated, and an adult making inappropriate advances on a minor. Please, please, please read w caution!</p><p>Happy Easter (alternatively happy discount chocolate day!)!!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day Andrei left for deployment, Lise had clung to him, grasping his hands tightly, weeping and pleading for him to stay, until she exhausted herself and collapsed in a sobbing heap onto the sofa. For the rest of the night, she had locked herself in her room and refused to be consoled.</p><p>Her smile had never returned after that. Not properly. There had been brief flickers of it now and then, but all the life and happiness had left her eyes that day. She’d withdrawn from the world, grown quiet and pale and listless, picked at her food and burst into tears at random. Andrei had left something in her broken, damaged beyond repair.</p><p>Looking back, it seemed sometimes that that was what had killed her.</p><p>Mary knew she wasn’t the sort to fall to pieces like that, least of all over Anatole. He’d done her the favour of breaking her heart before she could care enough for it to hurt. She wouldn’t be shedding any tears for him when he left.</p><p>She had never been one to keep up with national affairs. Her father had always admonished her for it, said her mind was too small and muddled to follow things like politics. She hadn’t paid it any mind when the French overran Austria. Didn’t notice when they broke through Poland. It was easy, in a place like this, to forget that the rest of the world had gone on turning, that there was still a war going on out there. When the draft notice went out in late September to summon every man left to fight, it shouldn’t have surprised her half as much as it did.</p><p>A frantic letter arrived from Natasha a few days later. Andrei wouldn’t have time to visit the Bald Hills and say goodbye before his deployment, she said. His train was leaving in the morning. Natasha’s hand had evidently shaken as she wrote. Here and there across the page, there were dried spots where something had made the ink run. Mary couldn’t find the words to write her back.</p><p>Andrei was gone already, and Anatole was no less distant. Over the next few days, he drifted away from her. Not that they’d been close to begin with. He haunted the corridors at odd hours of the night, refused to come to church or dinner, and slept in till well past noon. If she’d been living with a ghost it would’ve been no different.</p><p>It was easier this way, surely, Mary told herself. More impersonal. You couldn’t miss a person you’d never known. Couldn’t mourn someone you’d never truly loved.</p><p>But the ache of loneliness still cut deep. Privately, in the lonely hours of the night, she imagined he might come to her in tears, frightened and alone, and plead her forgiveness, which she would grant without question, and they would fall into each other’s arms, and it would all be beautifully tragic and romantic.</p><p>And utterly absurd, she thought, and promptly shoved the whole ridiculous fantasy to the back of her mind where it wouldn’t bother her.</p><p>A sullen grey cast had fallen over the house. As the air turned with autumn, it carried with it a current of fear. In the village, the men packed their bags and readied themselves for deployment. The lines of Bolkonsky’s face had set themselves into a permanent expression of worry. During her lessons, he trailed off on muttering nonsense tangents about the French and General Kutuzov and Moscow, until words evaded him or he forgot what he was saying, and he shouted her out of the room.</p><p>Every evening after dinner, Mary went to the shrine at the end of the corridor to light a candle and ask God for Andrei’s safety in battle, knowing he wouldn’t have the sense to do it himself. She prayed for her father’s health, for Nikolushka’s well-being, and for Lise’s soul in heaven, while the candle’s dim little flame shivered in the draft and threatened to go out.</p><p>As an afterthought, she murmured a hurried prayer for Anatole.</p><p>This was one of the few things she could find any comfort in these days. Something about the lilting prayers, the familiar gestures, and the feeling of giving herself over to a higher power had always left a warm contented glow in her heart. And it made her feel a little less alone.</p><p>Halfway through <em>Hail Mary</em>, a voice behind her said, “Marie.”</p><p>Mary whirled around, startled, and almost knocked the candle to the floor.</p><p>Anatole stood in the doorway like a man sleepwalking, dark circles under his eyes and his hair all askew. He should’ve been in bed at this hour. He hadn’t changed for bed yet, but he had stripped to his braces, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.</p><p>“Hello,” he said, in a ragged voice. “Might I bother you for a moment of your time?”</p><p>Mary felt, for the briefest of moments, a flicker of hope. Had he come to seek comfort in her? Was this the reconciliation she had longed for?</p><p>“Of course,” she said. Her mouth had gone very dry.</p><p>“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”</p><p>“No,” she lied, setting the candle aside. “Is there something the matter?”</p><p>Anatole closed his eyes and pushed the hair back from his forehead. In the dark of the hallway he looked terribly thin, like a figure sketched out of shadows. There was something weary and beaten-down and exhausted about him, as if he were fighting for it not to show but losing the battle.</p><p>“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.</p><p>Mary realized he was holding a bottle. She gathered from the list of his posture and the slur of his words that he’d already made good headway into it.</p><p>“Oh,” she said. Her heart dropped a few inches.</p><p>“I don’t feel like drinking alone. Not tonight.” He gestured vaguely to her. “Care to join me?”</p><p>This, she had to admit, not without a fair bit of guilt, was something of a disappointment. She would’ve much preferred the chivalry she had become accustomed to during their courtship, even if it was only feigned. But it felt wrong to refuse him her company when he finally asked for it, especially when he looked as miserable as he did now.</p><p>Especially with what awaited him in the morning.</p><p>Mary stood, pulling the sash of her dressing gown shut to keep the cold out, and allowed Anatole to lead her to the corridor, where a great marble staircase swept down to the ballroom. It had been a long while since there had been any dancing here. The chandelier and window panes glittered faintly in the moonlight, all covered in a fine layer of dust. Anatole took a seat on the topmost step, unfolding his long lean legs in front of him, and gestured for her to join him. Mary hesitated for a moment before obeying.</p><p>Without saying a word or so much as sparing her a sideways glance, he tipped the bottle back and drank deeply. Mary was acutely aware of the warmth of his body, not all that far from hers. A strange and ridiculous thrill of excitement went through her. She remembered that she was in her nightgown and flushed, drawing her arms across her chest in a flustered attempt at modesty. It wasn’t fair, the effect he had on her. Even now, after everything.</p><p>When he had finished drinking, Anatole wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and offered her the bottle. “Here,” he said.</p><p>Mary blinked. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“It’s your turn.”</p><p>She stared at him. He’d just had his mouth on that bottle. It seemed vulgar. Something for rakes and harlots. If this was how it was to share a drink with someone, she wasn’t all that certain she enjoyed it.</p><p>“I really shouldn’t,” she said.</p><p>He nudged her thigh with his knee. “What’s the harm in it?” he said. “It’s good for the heart. Takes your mind off of things.”</p><p>Gingerly, more out of pity than anything, Mary took a sip, just to humour him, and wrinkled her nose at how it burned on the way down. It wasn’t wine, whatever she had just drunk. And it didn’t taste particularly nice either. But it warmed the inside of her chest and sent a pleasant humming sensation through her. You could do worse, she thought, on a cold night like this.</p><p>They went on like this for a while, passing the bottle back and forth, until the taste of it no longer stung and Mary felt a quiet heaviness settle over her eyelids.</p><p>Anatole rested one elbow on his knee and stared down the stairwell, almost pensive. For once, he didn’t seem particularly inclined to make conversation. There was a strange air of sadness about him, one she had never seen before. Was he lonely, she wondered. Frightened? Wanting to reach out, but too proud?</p><p>“It’ll be strange not having you around the house,” Mary said, when the silence grew too heavy to bear. “Though I’m sure you’ll be happy to get away from this place for a while. I imagine you’ll find it quite exciting.” She forced herself to smile. It felt heavy and false. “You might even pick up a medal or two while you’re away. Like Andrei did.”</p><p>Anatole said nothing.</p><p>“We’ll have to celebrate when you return,” she went on. Her smile weakened in the corners. “I think we might still have some of that special champagne from the wedding. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>“Don’t pretend like I’m coming back,” Anatole said, in a hollow voice.</p><p>Mary drew back, cold. A hot lump rose in the back of her throat. She had always known that war was terrible, in some distant abstract way. But it had seemed to her that whenever Andrei left, it was the people he left behind that suffered most.</p><p>Anatole rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with the heel of his hand. She wondered if he had been crying, or if he was about to. “No need to look so mournful,” he said. “You’ll find someone else.”</p><p>“No,” Mary said, feeling quite empty. “I really don’t imagine I will.”</p><p>“You will,” he said. “You’re rich. Well-bred. And you’re not exactly decrepit. No one will take a divorcée, but a widow will do just fine.”</p><p>“I won’t find anyone who loves me.”</p><p>Anatole’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Couldn’t very well do worse than you already have, could you?” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s for the best. You have the rest of your life ahead of you. It’s a sad thing to waste. I’m not under any illusions you’ll miss me.”</p><p>“That’s not true.”</p><p>“You don’t have to lie to me, Marie. You won’t hurt my feelings.”</p><p>Mary said nothing. She wanted to argue with him, to insist that she wasn’t so cold or uncaring or heartless. But he was right. They both knew it.</p><p>“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been the husband you wanted.”</p><p>Mary lowered her gaze. An intense heat rose to her face. Neither of them seemed to want to look the other in the eye. “We were never really married,” she said quietly, with more boldness than she’d expected of herself. “We never lay together.”</p><p>“Well,” Anatole said, tapping his finger against the bottle, “if we’re going by that metric, then I’m married to half of Petersburg.”</p><p>Mary flinched. “Don’t joke about that.”</p><p>He gave a soft laugh and let his cheek lean against the banister. “Come now, you don’t honestly think you were the first woman to want me? You know by now I’m not concerned about things like chastity.”</p><p>She bit down an unwanted pang of jealousy and disgust. Her lip curled. Of course he had known other women. She’d known that. She’d <em>known</em> that. After Amélie, nothing should have surprised her. But it stung all the same, and she wasn’t sure it had any right to.</p><p>“I wonder what your parents would think,” Mary said drily. “To know they raised a male Magdalene.”</p><p>She’d meant to insult. But Anatole burst out laughing, as if they were two old friends sharing a joke. “Did you just come up with that now?” he said. “That’s quite good.”</p><p>Mary felt the tips of her ears go red. She put her arms around her knees. “I just don’t understand it.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Why you do it. Why you’re so willing to give yourself away to other people.”</p><p>Anatole shrugged irreverently. “I enjoy all of life’s pleasures. And it so happens that many people enjoy me as well. Why should I deprive myself? God made me as I am.”</p><p>“Weren’t you ever told that you were meant to save yourself for your wife?”</p><p>“I was,” he admitted. “But I’ve always found the whole idea quite stupid, really.”</p><p>“No,” Mary said, and shook her head. “It’s not stupid. It’s special.”</p><p>Anatole set the bottle aside. “There’s nothing special about it. If there was, I might have given a damn about it.”</p><p>“I don’t believe that.”</p><p>He tilted an eyebrow. “I suppose you’d be an expert, then?”</p><p>Mary flushed shade darker. It occurred to her that this wasn’t the sort of conversation normal women had with their husbands. But then again, she supposed, there wasn’t really anything normal about either of them, or this, or the fact that she’d helped him through a good three-quarters of the bottle and hadn’t yet resolved to put it down.</p><p>“Julie Drubetskaya told me it was perfect on her wedding night,” she murmured.</p><p>“Julie,” Anatole said plainly, “is full of shit.” He paused for a moment, considering this, and smirked. “Though I suppose Hélène’s taught Boris a thing or two.”</p><p>Against her will, Mary gave a snort that was half nerves and half disbelief. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself. Anatole had the look of a person who knew he shouldn’t have said what he had, but couldn’t bring himself to care. It was more charming than it had any right to be.</p><p>“No one’s any good at it without practice, and even then, half the time…” He shook his head. “You know, even I was a fumbling virgin once.”</p><p>“You?” said Mary. “The great Anatole Kuragin?”</p><p>Anatole laughed. “Do you think I’d lie to you?”</p><p><em>Without question</em>, she thought.</p><p>As if sensing her hesitation, Anatole smiled and took another swig from the bottle. “I was sixteen my first time,” he said. There was a heavy slur to his words now. “My parents were hosting a soirée. She was a friend of Mama’s. Brunette. <em>Exquisite </em>tits.”</p><p>Mary was too shocked to so much as object to the word <em>tits</em>.</p><p>“I asked her to dance during the waltz,” he went on. “She thought I was charming. I was a very good dancer, you know. Still am. After dinner she found me in the corridor and pulled me into a private room. I was nervous as all hell. I must’ve lasted about two minutes—that’s not how long it’s meant to last, mind you. It was probably a terrible disappointment for her.”</p><p>Mary thought of herself at sixteen, a shy withering slip of a girl, frightened of her own shadow, and a shudder of revulsion washed over her. </p><p>Anatole laughed, but there was no heart in it. “I was so afraid Mama would see her lipstick on my neck afterwards. I must’ve scrubbed my skin raw trying to get it off. But I don’t know why I was so worried. She never would’ve noticed. She never noticed anything.” He looked down at himself. The tips of his ears had gone bright red. “The next time I saw her, I pretended to have an upset stomach and hid in my room for the rest of the night. Me, shy. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”</p><p>Mary did not laugh.</p><p>Anatole’s voice became quiet. He rushed his words out, almost in shame. “I think she and Mama must’ve had a falling out, because she stopped coming over after that. And I haven’t seen her since. So you see, it’s nothing special at all.”</p><p>The two of them sat back, nothing else left to say to the other. Mary wasn’t certain what she had expected, but that was decidedly not it. Had he meant to amuse her? Make her jealous? Or perhaps he’d only wanted to dishearten her. It all sounded dirty, now that he had said it. </p><p>Anatole wouldn’t look at her now. A strange tense silence settled over them. Whatever judgement she had passed on him before, it now seemed hopelessly petty and small.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she murmured.</p><p>“What for?”</p><p>“That…it shouldn’t have happened.”</p><p>Anatole’s face went red. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this. Forget it. I’m not making any sense at all.”</p><p>He picked up the bottle again. His hands shook as he held it.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Mary asked softly.</p><p>“No.” He looked into the mouth of the bottle. “I suppose I thought this would help.”</p><p>“And has it?”</p><p>“To tell you the truth,” he said, sounding a little strangled, “not really.”</p><p>Mary chewed on her bottom lip. She saw now what she hadn’t understood before. There were men like Andrei who saw honour and glory in war, men like Dolokhov who revelled in it. Anatole was not one of those men. He was too soft, too slender, built for ballrooms, not the battlefield. There was something terribly fragile about him. One strong tap, and he might have shattered.</p><p>With clumsy hands, Anatole screwed his eyes shut, tipped the bottle back, and emptied the rest of it in one go. Mary found herself fixated on his lips.</p><p>“Have I frightened you off the thought of it now?” he asked, out of the corner of his mouth.</p><p>“I’m sorry?” Mary said, and blinked owlishly.</p><p>“Sex, I mean.”</p><p>Mary choked.</p><p>“That wasn’t my intention,” Anatole said. He smiled again, weakly, and Mary had the oddest urge to stroke his cheek.</p><p>“You haven’t,” she muttered.</p><p>“Good,” he said. “It would be a shame if I had.”</p><p>Mary looked at him again. She knew, in some distant place fogged over with drink, that perhaps this conversation had veered somewhere dangerous, but her mind felt as if it were no longer her own, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. Thoughts melted together, languid and hazy. It had gotten very dark, but the moonlight had turned Anatole into something made of silver. He was warm, so warm she could feel the heat of his body through her clothes. She could see the soft lines of his veins along the inside of his wrist. It was tempting beyond words to reach out and touch them. She wondered how he might react if she did.</p><p>“Anatole,” she began.</p><p>An implacable expression had come over his face. His eyes were glassy and half-lidded, the look of a man caught somewhere between waking and slumber. She felt his warm breath ghost across her cheek, smelled his heady cologne. Closer by an inch or two, whether it was him or her who leaned in first she couldn’t tell, and their lips met.</p><p>It was softer than she’d expected. Not that she had known what to expect. He tasted of vodka, but the burning had subdued into something soft, near-pleasant. There was a gentle sort of urgency in it, almost desperation. At once, Mary forgot that she was plain and he wasn’t, forgot every time he had rejected and insulted her, every bit of hurt he had ever caused her, and melted into it.</p><p>Anatole’s hand came up to rest on her cheek, and Mary felt herself go weak at his touch. She gasped softly as his lips parted.</p><p>Oh, she thought, thickly, as if wading through a dream, and sighed. Was this how it was? She’d never been kissed this way before, not even in her fantasies. It felt almost sacred.</p><p>Mary brushed his face with her fingertips, shyly at first. Anatole made a sound like a purr. She felt something animalistic stirring in her, a delicious heat in her belly, sending fire through her veins, and cupped his face, tracing his sharp cheekbones with a hurried sort of reverence.</p><p>God, she thought, though God was the furthest thing from her mind now. Was it any wonder she’d wanted him this long? This badly?</p><p>Anatole gently lay her on the floor and climbed atop her. Mary let her hand trail down his back, along the sinewy muscles of his shoulders. She wanted him closer. She wanted to touch every inch of him, <em>know</em> every inch of him.</p><p>Burning, now with desire instead of shame, Mary tangled her hands in his hair and pulled him flush to her. His body was lean and warm against hers. She could feel his every muscle, every breath he took, every beat of his heart, and only wanted more.</p><p>Mary couldn’t fathom how she knew what to do. Certainly no one had ever told her. It was a strange, instinctive sort of understanding, more feeling than thought. She shrugged off her housecoat—it was warm enough already with him pressed to her—and let her hands go where they wanted. Then her leg was over his hip, pulling him closer still, and her hurried fingers were working excitedly at the buttons of his shirt.</p><p>Anatole’s hand settled against her back, and his lips began to trail down her jaw. Mary shivered in delight. He was doing something wonderful with his mouth against her neck, and his other hand had found its way up her skirt, and she knew in an instant that if she never saw him again, it wouldn’t matter so long as she got to have this, because she wanted this, achingly, with every inch of her. She <em>wanted</em>—</p><p>No. She didn’t want this. She couldn’t. Not like this, desperate, in the dark and cold. With a man she didn't love. With someone she hardly even knew. </p><p>Mary drew back, breaking the kiss. She felt sober at once. Coldness enveloped her mind. Anatole followed her lips for a moment, before opening his eyes. He stared, his face clouded over with sleep.</p><p>No, she thought, as a shudder of ice went through her. There was no affection in any of this. No more emotion or fondness than there ever had been in the first place. She was no one to him, just the nearest warm body, a convenient distraction from whatever fear was haunting him. Nothing more than that.</p><p>Anatole laughed, a soft exhale against her cheek, and let his forehead rest against her shoulder. “<em>Chérie</em>,” he said dazedly, almost breathless, “I’m not opposed to this, but suppose we find a bed—”</p><p>“You’re drunk,” Mary said. As she said those words, they became more real to her. She stiffened. “Oh God, what are we doing?”</p><p>Anatole furrowed his brow and raised his head. It was too much—the pressure, the warmth, the scent of him. Mary pushed at his chest, feeling suddenly that she might be sick, until he sat back, with little resistance, on his haunches.</p><p>She gathered herself off the floor and straightened her skirts. Anatole frowned. He struggled to sit upright. His hair had fallen into his face. His lips were swollen where she had kissed them. The sight of it made her feel somehow soiled.</p><p>Mary flushed, revolted, humiliated beyond words. It felt as if she had just swallowed a mouthful of poison. She wiped her mouth with her hand. This was wrong. This had all been wrong.</p><p>What had possessed her to stoop to this depravity? Why had she thought any of it would make her feel any better?</p><p>“I don’t understand,” said Anatole, looking confused and hurt.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Mary said, choking back tears, her hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have done that.”</p><p>And she tore from the room without looking back.</p><hr/><p>The next morning, Mary woke to a head full of needles. There was a foul dry taste in the back of her mouth. Her tongue felt like lead. When she raised her head from the pillow, the mattress tipped and tilted beneath her like a ship at sea that threatened to send her tumbling to the floor.</p><p>Her punishment, she supposed, for what she had allowed to happen last night. For what she’d done. </p><p>As soon as that thought came, she tried to dismiss it methodically. There was no reason for it to feel wrong. He was her husband. She was his wife. What they’d done—what they’d <em>almost</em> done—was perfectly natural. Expected, even.</p><p>And yet, she couldn’t shake the horrid sinking feeling that she had come very close to making a terrible mistake.</p><p>Mary drew her arms around herself. The room was cold. She’d been warm when she’d gone to bed, almost unbearably. Now, huddled beneath the sheets, she shivered. Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, pale yellow through the dirty glass that hurt to look at. It felt as if she’d gone to sleep and somehow woken in a world that wasn’t her own, one where there was no sound, and the air was unnervingly still, and every breath and blink was an effort that stretched for eternity.</p><p>Detachedly, Mary forced herself to stand from the bed, brush her hair, and dress for the day. Every movement and step sent a dull pang of nausea and regret through her. The thought of breakfast turned her stomach, but not quite as much as the thought of facing Anatole.</p><p>To her surprise, he was standing at the door with his hands folded behind his back. His hair was combed and parted neatly. There was no colour at all left in his face, save for the dark circles beneath his eyes. In the crisp lines of his uniform, with its epaulettes and the sword and spurs at his belt, he had the look of a convict being led to the gallows.</p><p>Standing in the doorway, Mary hesitated. She’d almost expected him to have left already. It would’ve been easier, slipping out before sunrise without having to worry about loose ends or hurt feelings. And God knew between the two of them they had plenty of both to spare.</p><p>She wondered how much he remembered of the night before. He had been very drunk, she thought with another stab of guilt, drunker than she’d ever seen a man in her life. Andrei had told her that sort of thing had a tendency to blur memories into nothing. She couldn’t tell whether or not she hoped it had.</p><p>Anatole looked up at her with eyes that were dark and bloodshot and unreadable. If he’d managed to sleep at all, it had clearly been fitful.</p><p>“How do I look?” he asked, holding out his arms.</p><p>Dreadful, she thought. And lovely. And terrified.</p><p>“It suits you,” she said. The lie left a bitter taste in her mouth, something ashy and thick on her tongue. She could have choked on it. “The uniform, I mean.”</p><p>Anatole mustered a strained and charmless smile. “That’s generous of you,” he said. He looked down at himself with an air of dissatisfaction. “I don’t think green is my colour.”</p><p>Mary pressed her lips into a thin line.</p><p>“You look upset,” said Anatole.</p><p>“You didn’t have to wait for me, you know.”</p><p>“I thought I owed you the courtesy of saying goodbye.”</p><p>Mary hadn’t expected any sort of courtesy from him. Even eye contact seemed a stretch. “Oh.”</p><p>“I also wanted to apologize for my behaviour last night,” he said, bowing his head. “It was unseemly.”</p><p>Mary looked down at the floor, hating herself, wanting to run and hide, and too mortified to look at him. So, he remembered after all. And probably thought she was a shameless hussy for it. The pit of guilt that had opened in her stomach threatened to swallow her up. She wished she’d just stayed in bed.</p><p>A few years’ worth of silence passed between them. From the parlour there came a draft that left Mary’s skin crawling in gooseflesh. It was so cold she was almost surprised not to see his breath in the air.</p><p>“If—” she began haltingly. “If you see Andrei while you’re away, would you please tell him that I’m keeping him in my prayers?”</p><p>Anatole nodded. He produced a folded paper from his breast pocket and pressed it into her hands. A letter. “For my sister,” he said. “Just in case.”</p><p>Mary nodded and tucked the letter away. “I’ll pray for you,” she said quietly, not knowing what else to say, only knowing she had to say something.</p><p>He wasn’t a true believer—she knew that much by now. It might have meant nothing at all to him. But she saw something in his eyes soften all the same.</p><p>“Thank you,” he said softly.</p><p>Anatole drew his eyes away from hers. He looked askance about the room, as if searching for a reason to dawdle here another minute. If he didn’t end the conversation, he didn’t have to leave.</p><p>“Well,” he said. His voice hitched. “I suppose that’s all, then.”</p><p>The look in his eyes was hunted. Mary had seen fear in him before, but not like this. This was a new sort of terror that gripped him now, something base and animalistic. He looked flayed with panic, barely clinging on to the last vestiges of composure.</p><p>“Anatole,” she began, not knowing what she meant to say, only that it was followed somewhere by <em>I’m sorry</em>.</p><p>Before she could utter another word, Anatole lowered his face again, the way a proper gentleman would, and kissed her hands. She almost flinched, remembering the feeling of those soft lips against her own. Now it felt like being kissed by a marble statue.</p><p>“Be well, Marie,” he said.</p><p>Mary squeezed his hands. “You too.”</p><p>Then, like the coward she was, she turned away so that she wouldn’t have to see him leave.</p><p>She’d thought it might have made her happy, to cut this burden loose. He’d been nothing but horrid to her. Whatever a single night might have brought couldn’t change that.</p><p>But instead, all she felt was an empty sadness. It seemed to her that all their lives were unravelling, as if someone had taken the string holding everything together and pulled it loose.</p><p>With Anatole gone, Mary went about her day as normal, her lessons and prayers and chores an easy thoughtless routine. Comforting, in their own way, though the house felt cold and desolate as a graveyard. Just as silent, too. That evening at dinner, Bolkonsky, his face ashen, didn’t say a word.</p><p>When night came again, and it was time to go to sleep, she reached for her Bible, thumbing through the worn pages until she found a section she’d found herself returning to, day after day. <em>Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labour: if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Those of you who have actually read W&amp;P, or at least started it, might recognize where this particular canon divergence comes from! For the unfamiliar, early on, Vasily tries to get Anatole to marry Mary, and the whole thing blows up in a real shitshow, and we promise we've not gone totally whackadoodle and pulled this out of thin air. We're not quite that trashy. Yet.</p><p>We published this as a one-shot, but we may or may not (read: definitely do) have more written! If there's any interest, we'll definitely consider continuing it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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